The Hero's Place: Medieval Literary Traditions of Space and Belonging 0813216850, 9780813216850

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The Hero’s Place

The Hero’s Place Medieval Literary Traditions of Space and Belonging Molly Robinson Kelly

The Catholic University of America Press Washington, D. C.

Copyright © 2009 The Catholic University of America Press All rights reserved The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standards for Information Science—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984. ∞ Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Kelly, Molly Robinson. The hero’s place : medieval literary traditions of space and belonging / Molly Robinson Kelly. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. iSBN 978-0-8132-1685-0 (cloth : alk. paper)  1. French literature— To 1500—History and criticism.  2. Personal space in literature. I. Title. PQ155.P47K45 2009 840.9´353­— dc22     2009008083

For Karl D. Uitti, 1933–2003 In memoriam

Contents



Acknowledgments ix



Introduction: Place and Literature 1



Three Medieval Genres, Three Medieval Heroes 3 Spatiality and Place: Some Terminology 9 Place Studies: An Overview 13 Place in the Biblical Tradition: A Binary View 28 Holy Places: Some Notes on Medieval Pilgrimage and Crusade 31

1 The Old French Vie de saint Alexis 63

The Spatial Framework 65 Places of Earth and Heaven 98

2 La Chanson de Roland 117

The Spatial Framework 120 Places of Belonging 145 The Place of a Hero 177

3 Tristan and Iseut before the Potion 179

Tristan’s “Prehistory”: Generalities 184 Rivalin and Blanchefleur 192 Tristan’s Childhood 199 The Couple before the Potion 210

4 After the Potion 227

The Lovers at Mark’s Court 230 King Mark’s Justice 233 The Morois Forest 237 Reconciliation 248 Separate Spaces, Separate Lives 257 The Lovers’ Death 269 The Place of Poetry 281



Conclusions  285



Place’s Fate Revisited: A New Interpretation 285



Bibliography 301 Index 315



Literature and Place 293

Acknowledgments

Portions of chapter 3 were previously published as “Tristan: A Story of Precarious Belonging,” Tristania 18 (1998): 1–15. I thank the Edwin Mellen Press for graciously allowing me to revisit the material here. As anyone who has written a long work of scholarship knows, institutional support is essential to the undertaking. I have been very fortunate in this regard. The then Department of Romance Languages and Literatures of Princeton University was instrumental helping me develop the first version of this study. In summer 2004, I received a Research Advisory Committee grant from the University of Alabama, which allowed me to advance this project considerably. Above all, I am grateful to Lewis and Clark College for the tremendous support it has offered me these past five years. This support has been present on several levels: logistical, in the form of assistance from Watzek Library Staff and the administrator of the Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures, Maarit Reed; financial, in the form of a research grant, sabbatical leave, and generous conference support; and moral, in the form of encouragement and intellectual stimulation from my many wonderful colleagues, especially Nicole Aas-Rouxparis, Isabelle Demarte, Claudia Nadine, Dinah Dodds, Rob Kugler, and deans Julio de Paula and Jane Hunter. I also wish to thank Jen Fejta

ix

x Acknowledgments for her invaluable assistance in proofreading and formatting the final manuscript. Sincere thanks as well to David McGonagle of the Catholic University of America Press, who has patiently and kindly guided me through the publication process. I am grateful for his steadfast faith in this project. I also want to thank my parents, Margaret and Steven Robinson, for giving me a love of reading that has shaped my life. I cannot thank them adequately for the countless hours spent reading to me before I could read myself, the indulgence with which they regarded my clandestine reading during class time at school or into the latenight hours, and the encouragement they never failed to provide as I pursued a life of the imagination. Mom and Dad, thank you. Thank you as well to the many friends who have offered me support, constancy, and companionship during the years I’ve spent on this book: Rebecca Graves, Carmen Mayer-Robin, Allie Evans, and most especially my sister, Meg, and my brother, Joe, the best siblings anyone could have. The first draft of this book was written under the guidance of Karl D. Uitti of Princeton University. Karl introduced me to medieval French literature, illuminated for me its depth and beauty, and provided an example of scholarship, mentorship, and humanity that I will remember vividly and always. That this book bears his indelible imprint is a source of deep satisfaction to me, for even now, six years after his passing, I feel his absence sorely and am contented to find his presence in these pages. I dedicate this book to Karl’s memory. Finally, I would like to express my deepest thanks to my husband, Gordon Kelly, and our children, Atticus and Miriam Kelly. With them, I have found my true place. I hope this book will help to express, in some small way, what that means to me.

The Hero’s Place

Introduction 

Place and Literature

Space is such a fundamental part of human experience that it is difficult to imagine a spaceless reality. In everyday life, we rely continually on the concept of universally valid spatial measurements in order to read maps and exchange directions. So pervasive is the concept of space as uniform, measurable distance that we can forget that extension is not the only quality of space. One square mile in downtown Tokyo is not the same as one square mile in Montana. Furthermore, one identical square mile in Montana is not the same for each person living there. For human beings, real spaces are not just impersonal measurements of extension; they hold different meanings depending on who we are. We associate spaces with what has been experienced there, and this interplay between experience and space infuses space with an emotional charge and value beyond that of a neutral receptacle for our lives. We see this ability of space to hold emotions both on an individual and community level: we need only to imagine visiting our childhood home, the high school we attended, the beaches at Normandy, the site of the World Trade Center towers in New York City, or that of the concentration camps at Auschwitz, to grasp the emotional power and the qualitative diversity of spaces. While the concept of neutral, extensive space has long been elementary to the mathematical and natural sciences, intellectuals have been somewhat slow to focus

1

2  Place and Literature on this evocative potential of space. It is only in the past fifty years or so that scholars have begun to do so. The German philosopher Martin Heidegger emphasized what he called wohnen (commonly translated as “dwelling,” but which also means living, inhabiting)— the caring relationship between humans and their spatial environment—as a fundamental mode of human existence in his 1951 essay “Bauen Wohnen Denken” (“Building Dwelling Thinking”). Gaston Bachelard also discusses the intense meaningfulness of certain spaces, such as houses and rooms within houses, as well as their power for the poetic imagination, in his 1957 work La Poétique de l’espace. Also in 1957, Mircea Eliade dealt with the seminal notion of sacred space in The Sacred and the Profane: The Nature of Religion. Alongside these and other scholars of various disciplines pondering space’s meanings, a field of geography has gradually developed that focuses specifically on the hermeneutic possibilities of space. This field is generally called humanistic or human geography, and it examines how human beings invest spaces with value and meaning. In this consideration of how we experience and interpret space, an important resource has been underutilized by scholars: literature. Human experience is recorded and remembered largely through the written word. Written documents can take many forms and be of many different types: historical, political, scientific, creative, and so on. Among these forms, literature distinguishes itself by its purpose: creative rather than accurate, it tends to focus on the deeper truths of human experience rather than on factual truth. The term “literature,” taken in its traditional sense, can refer to material either realistic or magical, inspired by fact or completely imaginary, in prose or in verse, meant to be performed or to be read quietly. Its range is vast, but there is at least one characteristic shared by all literature: while it may or may not depict factual reality, its factuality is generally of secondary importance. Even in realist works, literature is fundamentally creative. It invites participatory reading and favors interpretative engagement over the mere facts. For all these reasons,

Place and Literature  3 literature has been a vital medium for the expression of what space means to human beings. In contemporary literary scholarship, the notion of meaningful space is implicit in the many studies of exile and identity (whether national, ethnic, linguistic, religious, or other) which have appeared in recent years. Exile—the act of leaving one space for another, often permanently—represents a fundamental human space-experience that highlights the intense non-neutrality of space. Many literary studies of exile have focused on how an author’s experience of exile and expatriate life (Edward Said or Salman Rushdie, for example) influences his or her work. Studies of the relationship between the life experiences and work of a writer bring valuable insight to our understanding of space. Less common but equally promising have been studies of space that restrict their focus to the literary work itself and examine how it portrays space and its meanings. This work-centered approach facilitates a consideration of works of different time periods—especially more ancient works for which little is known about the author—in order to reflect upon the view of human-space they reveal. These older works of a literary tradition are particularly important because they are often have foundational and paradigmatic status for the works that follow them.

Three Medieval Genre s, Three Medieval Heroe s The first major surviving works of the French literary tradition were written in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. In these early years of French literature, three genres enjoyed great popularity and influence: the saint’s life, the epic poem or chanson de geste, and romance. These three genres provide some of the earliest and most influential works not only of French, but of western literature. In the saint’s life, we find the image of the spiritual seeker; in the epic chanson de geste, inspired by the epics of Greek and Roman antiquity, we

4  Place and Literature find the origins of the warrior-hero. And in romance, with its tales of knights, ladies, love, and adventure, we find an enormously original and influential genre of the French Middle Ages, an ancestor of what is perhaps the foremost genre of western literature, the novel. In order, then, to deepen our understanding of expressions of human-space in Old French literature and to do so with generic diversity, I have chosen to study works of these three important genres. For the genre of the saint’s life, I read the Life of Saint Alexis (ca. 1080). For the chanson de geste, I study one of its best known representatives, the Song of Roland (ca. 1100).1 For my study of the romance genre, I discuss the early versified versions of the tale of Tristan and Iseut (ca. 1180). Scholars have debated whether these works are exemplary of their genres, and indeed, generic distinctions can be difficult to circumscribe in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, when little is codified and cross-fertilization among genres is common. I have chosen these works not so much because they exemplify their genres, but because each offers rich terrain for the study of human-space in literature. Each of these works is centered on a protagonist who expresses a unique vision of, and relationship to, space. As a saint, a warrior, and a romance hero respectively, Alexis, Roland, and Tristan exhibit different qualities and values associated with spaces. Above all, it is their uniqueness in this regard that led me to see in these three heroes an excellent resource for studying space in medieval French literature while bringing generic diversity to my study. The Life of Saint Alexis recounts the tale of a young Roman no1. Scholars have generally given 1086 as the terminus post quem for Roland’s date of composition, based on the studies of Martín de Riquer (Les Chansons de geste françaises, 2nd ed., trans. Irénée Cluzel [Paris: Nizet, 1957]) and R. Menéndez Pidal (La España del Cid, 7th ed. [Madrid: Espana-Calpe, 1969]). However, as Michelle Szkilnik has recently argued, the arguments of Riquer and Menéndez Pidal are not well founded, and the 1086 date must therefore be reexamined (“Roland et les chameaux: sur la date de la Chanson de Roland,” Romania 122 (2004): 522–31. As for the Oxford manuscript of Roland, scholars are in general agreement that it dates from the mid-twelfth century (cf. for example Charles Samaran, “Sur la Date approximative du Roland d’Oxford,” Romania 94 [1973]: 523–27). I have cautiously assumed a late-eleventh- to early-twelfth-century date for Roland’s composition.

Place and Literature  5 bleman whose parents, like the biblical Abraham and Sarah, had long been thought sterile. In response to ardent prayers beseeching God to give them a child “according to His will,” they conceive a son. When the time comes for Alexis to marry, his father finds for him a beautiful wife of noble birth. On their wedding night, Alexis is greatly tempted by the marriage bed but realizes that he is called to a life of holiness. After asking his new wife to take part in his saintly calling by taking Christ as her husband, he entrusts her with his swordbelt and ring and flees Rome under cover of darkness. He spends seventeen years in poverty in Edessa, where his growing reputation for holiness begins to draw crowds and unwanted attention. To escape them, he flees once more. When the boat upon which he embarks is brought to Rome by a storm, he is filled with fear lest he be recognized and forced to return to his worldly family but soon realizes that he has become so unrecognizable to them that he can ask his own father for charity without being discovered. His father agrees, and Alexis spends the next seventeen years as a beggar living under his family’s staircase, where he eventually dies. After his true identity is discovered, his body is paraded through the streets of Rome. Later, he is blissfully reunited with his wife in death. Rome celebrates him as a great intercessor for the city he so avoided in life. The Life of Saint Alexis, like the Song of Roland, tells a tale in which the hero’s destiny is closely intertwined with the history, and even salvation, of a place. And yet the story of Roland, a proud warrior, could hardly be more different from that of the poor beggar-saint, Alexis. The Song of Roland, roughly contemporary with the Life of Saint Alexis, is generally considered the earliest masterpiece of French literature. Probably written late in the eleventh century, a time when a sense of French identity was beginning to take hold, it tells the tale of events supposed to have taken place three centuries earlier, during the reign of Charlemagne. After twelve years spent abroad conquering lands for Christendom, Charlemagne and his army long to return to France. Only one Spanish city, Saragossa, remains to be won

6  Place and Literature from Saracen hands. Charlemagne’s nephew, Roland, who is a brave warrior and one of Charlemagne’s twelve “pairs” or peers (a group of elite knights whose number recalls the twelve apostles of Christ), tries unsuccessfully to convince his fellow Franks that they should forego their return to France long enough to vanquish Saragossa. As the army marches back to France, its rearguard, led by Roland, is attacked by the Saracens of Saragossa. Greatly outnumbered, Roland and the Frankish rearguard fight bravely and manage to inflict great casualties on the Saracens, but not without losing their own lives to the last man. Alerted by the sound of Roland’s horn, Charlemagne returns to avenge Roland’s death and conquer Saragossa. Historical records mentioning such an event refer simply and briefly to a setback experienced by Charlemagne’s troops in the Pyrenees as they returned from Spain. According to Einhard’s Life of Charlemagne (ca. 830), Charles’s troops were attacked in this manner, but instead of Saracens, the assailants were Basques. In all likelihood, the eleventh-century author of the Song of Roland did not intend for his account to be historically accurate but rather to reflect the realities of his time, in which western Christendom stood in fear of Muslim invasion and conquest and longed to reconquer the parts of Spain that had fallen to Islam. (Indeed, in the late eleventh century, Pope Urban II launched the Crusades by calling upon Christians of the West to conquer the Holy Land.) The Song of Roland was written in a time and place greatly concerned with one of the primary functions of space: its association with the divine. Whether a particular space was ruled by one religion or another was of crucial importance to men and women of the Middle Ages, and the Song of Roland is heavily informed by such belief. The first Old French versions of the tragic love story of Tristan and Iseut appear approximately one century after the Song of Roland and the Life of Saint Alexis, in the latter half of the twelfth century. The popularity and influence of this story must have been considerable, as attested by its pan-European status: versions of the

Place and Literature  7 story were written in many different European languages for centuries afterward. Despite this prevalence, the earliest Old French verse romances of the story—those of Béroul (ca. 1180) and Thomas (ca. 1170)—have reached us in a fragmentary state, suggesting that these early romances may have fallen into neglect following their composition. Far more complete are the Middle High German verse romances of Eilhart von Oberg (ca. 1190) and Gottfried von Strassburg (ca. 1210), which I will also include in my corpus. (The story of Tristan and Iseut may have become unpopular among contemporary writers and audiences because it is at such variance with the dominant Christian ethos of its time.) The true identity of Tristan (whose name also appears as Tristran or Tristrant) as lord of his father’s realm and nephew of King Mark of Cornwall is hidden from him for mysterious reasons by his foster father when he is orphaned at birth. Even though he doesn’t know his true origins, as a boy Tristan accidentally ends up at his Uncle Mark’s court, where he is befriended and taken in by the king. Under pressure from his barons to marry, Mark resolves to take Princess Iseut of Ireland (also Yseut, Isolt, Isolde) as his wife and sends Tristan to bring her to Cornwall. On the return voyage, a thirsty Tristan and Iseut accidentally drink a love potion prepared by Iseut’s magician mother, which was intended as a gift for the newlyweds. The love potion causes the couple to fall madly and fatally in love with each other. Despite Tristan and Iseut’s passion for each other, Iseut marries Mark. The two lovers carry on their affair in spite of various traps and obstacles set up by Mark and his barons. Tristan is banished, marries another woman (also named Iseut), and receives a deadly wound in battle. Believing that only the first Iseut can cure him, he sends for her and asks that the ship carrying her raise a white sail upon its return if she is on board and a black sail if not. As Iseut’s ship arrives in harbor, Tristan’s wife deceitfully tells her husband that the ship’s sail is black. He dies immediately, as does the first Iseut when she finally arrives at his bedside only to find him

8  Place and Literature dead. In some versions of the story, King Mark later takes the lovers’ bodies back to Cornwall and has them buried together. The story of Tristan and Iseut revolves mainly around Tristan. As a protagonist he differs radically not only from Roland and Alexis but from nearly all other literary characters of his time. He shares many qualities of the great romance heroes: an exemplary knight, he is brave and strong and successfully vanquishes foes no one else will fight. In addition, he is an extremely clever master of disguise and trickery, and therein lies perhaps a sign of what makes him so different from his contemporary romance heroes. Tristan’s success at taking on other identities seems to derive from a lack of core identity. What is so interesting for our purposes is that Tristan’s lack of core identity often expresses itself in spatial terms. Indeed, Tristan is characterized by a certain nomadism: from childhood he is prone to wandering, to drifting in boats without direction, and to moving frequently from place to place. In contrast with other protagonists of his time like Roland and Alexis, whose identification with a certain space remains strong no matter how they wander, Tristan seems to have no spatial “home base” with which he is identified. This volume will focus particular attention on the Tristan legend by devoting two chapters to it, both because the corpus is so extensive and diverse and because Tristan as a character exhibits a spatial belonging quite unique in the literature of his time. Alexis and Roland, to whom is devoted one chapter each, will help us to identify, by contrast, what makes Tristan so unusual. While Alexis and Roland tell tales in which the relationship between human beings and space provides meaning, identity, and continuity, the early Tristan corpus depicts the problematization of this relationship. Studied together, these three protagonists will lead us to a more complete understanding of how medieval literature gives expression to the multifaceted human experience of space.2 2. I wish to emphasize at the onset that my study is literary, not historical, in nature: I am primarily concerned with describing the internal functioning of the works I’ve chosen

Place and Literature  9

Spatialit y and Pla ce : S ome Termin olo gy For the purposes of studying space in literature, it is useful to delineate a terminology. Until now, I have used the term space generally and have employed the term human-space when I wanted to refer specifically to space as it is subjectively experienced by people. As I have noted, there are many objective things we can say about space. We can say that a house is located on a particular street in a specific city, state, or country; that a person drove from one location to another; that one mountain is higher than another; that one river is swift and narrow while another is wide and slow; and so on. In life, we can describe spatial location, movements, and physical characteristics in an objective manner, and the same is true in literature. When scholars of literature have examined space in the past, they have primarily dealt with this objective kind of space. For the purposes of my study, I will call such space spatiality. Spatiality involves the different physical spaces in which the story’s action takes place. When we study spatiality, we can ask many questions about space, all of which, in theory, can receive objective answers. Is the space indoors or outdoors? What kinds of physical features does it have (mountains, plains, woods, oceans)? Where do the characters go in the story? Are these places close or far apart? We can even reflect on whether the space described corresponds to a real space in the world or whether it is imaginary, whether its description is historically accurate and to what degree, and so forth. If we were to study spatiality in, for example, J. R. R. Tolkein’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy, we would discuss where the characters go on their journey and what the terrain is like, and we could even make a map of the imaginary territory of Middle Earth. (Indeed, Tolkein found with regards to space and place, and leave to future study the important questions of the works’ relationship with the external world (such as manuscript provenance, intended audience, political context, etc.).

10  Place and Literature the spatiality of his work important enough to provide a map for his readers.) The role of interpretation in spatiality is minimal. Spatiality is not the only kind of space described in literature. Where human beings are concerned, space does not often or long remain neutral and objective. It is also subjectively experienced by the text’s characters and can be of emotional significance to them. Scholars have rarely considered what spaces mean for the characters within a given work or what a particular work’s idiosyncratic portrayal of space might mean for the interpretation of the work as a whole. And yet, the poetic significance of this portrayal is indisputable. Space can bring characters comfort or fear, make them safe or place them in peril, connect them to loved ones or remind them of their absence; very often, space means something to literary characters. For the purposes of my study, I will call this type of space place.3 In a study of place, we focus on questions of a more subjective order: How are the different spaces presented in the work felt and valued by the characters? When we consider this affective impact of space within the work as a whole, how does it inform our interpretation of the work? A study of literary place deals with how space functions meaningfully and internally within a work, probing its emotional and semantic resonances. In theory, this distinction between spatiality and place—which can be summarized as that between neutral space and meaningful space—is clear. In reality, however, it is often difficult to say where one leaves off and the other begins, especially in medieval literature, the descriptions in which (spatial and otherwise) tend heavily toward symbolic dimensions. If an author writes, for example, “The wild storms and dark, churning waters of Cape Horn make it a treacherous place for ships to pass,” is the description best served by the term spatiality or place? Objectively speaking, there are certainly storms around Cape Horn, and it is well known that many ships 3. My use of the term “place” corresponds closely to its acceptation in humanistic geography.

Place and Literature  11 have met their end there. Such factual information about a space would seem to involve spatiality. However, the words dark, churning, and treacherous all call up images and thoughts that hold fearful emotions for people. Indeed, each of these words is entangled with strong metaphorical connotations: the idea of darkness involves the inability to see, night, and fear; churning evokes the image of a person churning butter and raises the question of who might be causing the churning; treacherous evokes the idea of betrayal and deceit. As this simple example shows, the difficulty of distinguishing spatiality and place is linked to the qualities of human language itself. To describe anything, including space, we use some form of language. And language is intrinsically metaphorical: when I use a concrete word like mountain to designate a mountain I see in front of me, the word is not the mountain itself, it only represents the mountain and provides a convenient way for me to exchange ideas with others. The distance between word and thing is even greater with an abstract word such as treacherous. When I use such a word, what is the concrete thing I am describing? It is only an idea I have based on my experiences, my exchanges with others, my reading, and so on. It is likely that you have a similar idea of what treacherous means, but there is no concrete object by which to verify our mutual understanding, so we cannot know indubitably whether the word means exactly the same thing to each of us. In short, the word is not the thing or idea it designates but only represents the thing or idea. In the gap between the thing and the word, ambiguity is born. It is worthwhile to reexamine these characteristics of language in the light of our exploration of spatiality and place in literature. The challenge of differentiating the two—in other words, of differentiating the value-neutral and objective from the meaningful and subjective—reflects a challenge inherent in language itself. In a basic sense, our subjectivity—that is, our being who we are—colors every thought we have and every word we use. How could it be different with space? Nonetheless, it is useful to continue to differentiate

12  Place and Literature between what presents itself objectively (in our study, spatiality) from that which does not (place). When we are told, for example, that Alexis enters a ship, and that “Andreit a Rome les portet li orez” (“Straight to Rome the wind carries them” [v. 195]), the statement’s objectivity differentiates it qualitatively from the lines that follow: “Quant vit sun regne, durement s’en redutet” (“When he [Alexis] sees his realm, he fears greatly” [v. 198]).4 While verse 195 establishes an element of the tale’s spatiality by telling us where Alexis went, verse 198 tells us about Rome as place. As we account interpretatively for Alexis’s negative emotional reaction, we confront the question of what Rome means to the saint. The interpretative complexity of this question clearly surpasses that of spatiality and goes to the heart of the Life’s meaning and message. While in examples such as this one the distinction between spatiality and place is clear, there can also be areas of blurring between the two. This is because while spatiality does not necessarily take on the characteristics of place, the meanings and values of place must be associated with space. In other words, all place deals with space, and therefore with elements of spatiality (location, movement, etc.). In this way, a work’s spatiality will often take part in its place, crossing over, as it were, into the affective and the meaningful. Not all space, however, becomes place. We have much to gain by retaining the distinction between spatiality and place, by studying each in turn and in relation with the other. As medieval literary works, Alexis, Roland, and Tristan will of course tend to privilege the semantic richness of place, as will my examination of them. Nonetheless, all three build their plots on spatiality—on certain events occurring in certain spaces, on characters moving from space to space—and the consideration of such neutral elements often reveals patterns and truths worthy of interest in their own right and quite different 4. Citations of the Life of Saint Alexis refer to Christopher Storey’s edition of the Hildesheim manuscript (L): La Vie de saint Alexis, Textes Littéraires Français 148 (Geneva: Droz, 1968). The English translation is mine.

Place and Literature  13 from the more affective significance of place. It is important to understand that I use the terms spatiality and place not because they designate ontological truths or realities (they don’t), but because they are useful to the scholar: for differentiating between two angles of approach to literary space and for communicating what each reveals both individually and in concert with the other. These notions are best illustrated through an attentive reading of the roles played by space within a specific literary work. Because space is such a fundamental element of human experience, like the air we breathe, it is both pervasive and unnoticed. This is true in literature as it is in life: some works focus a great deal on space, while others seem to make little account of it. Yet on some level, all work must take place in space. The formula is telling: to say that an event occurs, we describe it as “taking place,” as though space were essential to all occurrence. Still, that space is present in all works does not preclude each work from having its own unique and characteristic manner of enacting space. By considering both the “neutral” spatial framing of narrative and the subjective ways in which characters experience space, we can bring into relief each work’s distinctive poetico-spatial reality. (Of course, the “spatial” reality of these works is of a poetic nature, and the spaces depicted in a work participate in a poetic project. In works of antiquity and the Middle Ages, especially, the opposite can also be true—the poetic project participates in a spatial one, as do Alexis and Roland vis-à-vis their contemporary French-speaking communities, for example.)

Pla ce Studie s : An Overview The examination of place and identity in Alexis, Roland, and Tristan will be much enriched if, before turning to these texts, we establish a theoretical and historical context for thinking about place. Although literary studies have not yet tapped the potential of place studies, it has not gone unnoticed that spaces hold meaning for hu-

14  Place and Literature man beings and that literature often works with this meaning. Indeed, space’s significance represents not only a common theme in literature but a fundamental human experience, one poets have long noticed. Scholars, however, have only taken note of the notion in relatively recent times. As mentioned earlier, Heidegger, Eliade, Bachelard, and others turned their attention to the relationship of people and spaces around the middle of the twentieth century. Later, the field of humanistic geography began to deal explicitly with the hermeneutics of space. A growing group of intellectuals affiliated with various disciplinary backgrounds ranging from religion, philosophy, and psychology to architecture, environmental studies, and landscape design is thinking about human-space. For the purposes of my study, I will refer to this loosely affiliated group of thinkers with the term place studies.5 While humanistic geography is relatively recent, there is nothing new about the realization that space is not just “the pure manifold of three dimensions,” to use Heidegger’s formulation, but instead intensely meaningful to human beings.6 The most fundamental and well-known texts of western literature tell of the bond between human beings and places. Examples of such stories are numerous. Homer’s Odyssey tells the story of Odysseus’s long quest to find his way home to Ithaca. Greek civilization found deep strength and meaning in the citizen’s attachment to Athens or to other city-states (the polis);7 the Greeks also believed that divine powers dwelled in 5. By using this term, I do not wish to imply a systematic, cohesive school of thought, but rather a group of disparate studies revolving around a common interest in what I call place. Like any label, this one can lead to reductive thinking if understood in too restrictive a manner. For the sake of convenience, I have chosen to focus on what unites, rather than distinguishes, these scholars by referring to them with a common term. Like my other terms, this one is to be understood as utilitarian. 6. Martin Heidegger, Sein und Zeit (Tübingen: M. Niemeyer, 1960), 155. 7. In his Timaeus, Plato describes the forgotten and illustrious origins of the city of Athens. According to this story, the goddess Athena “chose the place in which you were born with an eye to its temperate climate, which would produce men of high intelligence ..... she picked a place for her first foundation that would produce men most like herself in character” (37). Present-day citizens of Athens descend from these men, “the finest and

Place and Literature  15 the place where a hero was buried.8 The history of the Hebrew people as recorded in the Torah reaches from the loss of earthly paradise toward the ongoing hope of a Promised Land. Virgil’s Aeneid recounts a people’s desire to rebuild the destroyed city of Troy into a new city, Rome. Such evidence testifies to the complex, emotional relationship that binds humans, and in particular, communities, to their physical environment and suggests literature’s capacity for expressing this relationship. Despite the permanence of place-related themes in literature, the Euclidean concept of space as uniformly homogeneous extension has generally dominated the history of western thought. However, when we reduce space to homogeneous extension, we neglect to describe adequately the manner in which human beings actually experience space. (Literature, on the contrary, has often taken the experience of space as the foundation and premise for entire works or bodies of work, as exemplified by Marcel Proust’s portrayal of le côté de chez Swann versus le côté de Guermantes, for instance.) In his exhaustive treatment of the subject, The Fate of Place: A Philosophical History, Edward Casey traces the philosophical treatment of place from ancient cosmogonies through the early 1990s.9 Calling the stillprevalent tendency to ignore the concept of place “a circumstance ..... that combines magnitude of promise with dearth of realization,” he muses: At work as well in the obscuration of place is the universalism inherent in Western culture from the beginning. This universalism is most best race of men that ever existed” (36). The Timaeus reveals the interdependent relationship that exists among the gods, a place, and a people’s sense of its history. Cf. Timaeus and Critias, trans. Desmond Lee (London: Penguin, 1971). 8. This notion, which is central for example to Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus, is discussed in Lewis Richard Farnell, Greek Hero Cults and Ideas of Immortality. The Gifford Lectures, Delivered in the University of St. Andrews in the Year 1920 (Chicago: Ares, 1995). 9. Edward S. Casey, The Fate of Place: A Philosophical History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997). Further references to this work are given after quotations in the text.

16  Place and Literature starkly evident in the search for ideas, usually labeled “essences,” that obtain everywhere and for which a particular somewhere, a given place, is presumably irrelevant. Is it accidental that the obsession with space as something infinite and ubiquitous coincided with the spread of Christianity, a religion with universalist aspirations?10

As we will see in the three works we will study—works deriving from medieval Christian culture—Christian universalism does not always imply an obscuration of place in literature or, to some extent, in history. When Urban II proclaimed the crusade, he referred to the proposed endeavor as gesta Dei per francos, or God’s deeds accomplished through the French. By couching his call in these terms, Urban reflected a mindset according to which the universal work of God derived from a specific place, France. Western history and literature testify to the fact that, while philosophy may have favored space over place, people certainly did not. All the same, the radical and revolutionary development of Christian universality no doubt had a profound impact on mankind’s perception of space. Within the Christian perspective, the unique particularities that defined human belonging to place—clan, societal status, work, worship—were transcended by a universal belonging to one God and to his people everywhere. But the sense of universal belonging does not necessarily diminish the power of place. Historically, just the opposite has often been true. The universalist aspirations of Rome did not preclude that Rome itself held intense meaning for those that lived there. Islam and Christianity both hold certain places to be especially significant. It is entirely possible that a belonging that conceives of itself as universal, whether Christian, Roman, or other, expresses itself through and within the values of a particular place. To use an example of primary importance to medieval men and women, the Christian belief that a universal God had taken human form in the particular person of Jesus of Nazareth, in 10. Ibid., xii.

Place and Literature  17 a specific place and time, expresses this very conjunction of the universal and the particular through place. This conjunction of universal and particular characterizes not only Christian but much of religious belief. However, as Casey aptly demonstrates, for some time now western science and philosophy (disciplines that were not clearly demarcated in the general consciousness until around the Enlightenment) have been almost solely concerned with the universal—with that which is true for every time and place. From early times, they have dealt almost exclusively with geometrical, quantifiable space, to the detriment of qualitative place. Casey traces the western conceptualization of space beginning with antiquity.11 According to Casey, philosophers of antiquity acknowledged and attempted to theorize two faces of space: one qualitative, associated with the material and finite world (place), the other infinite and empty (the void). Increasingly, however, the idea of an infinite void was replaced by speculations about infinite space. Nonetheless, until Newton posited the concept of absolute space, the finite world—place—was still seen as the firm center around which the cosmos was oriented. To extend Casey’s argument, early western philosophers generally conceived of a spatial universe divided into two categories: the finite and thoroughly real place of the perceptible world, and the placeless void. In other words, space was place, or it was nothing at all. With Newton, “an actual physical universal void is posited in which there is no significant complication by place or placelike properties.”12 Increasingly, the terms place and space become interchangeable; Newton uses the terms “absolute place” in his Principia but, as Casey argues, “such a place is merely a predelineated part, 11. Casey’s treatment of the history of western thought about space is detailed and thorough, and my summary here will not do justice to its depth nor its complexity. My purpose is to offer the broad outlines of Casey’s exhaustive history, in order to give the reader a context for the alternative reading of this history which I will develop. 12. Casey, Fate of Place, 200.

18  Place and Literature an integral portion, of absolute space.” Philosophers as divergent as Locke, Leibniz, Kant, Gassendi, and More concur that “what characterizes space in its entirety is its pure extensionality.” But, as Casey affirms, “Space on the modernist conception ends by failing to locate things or events in any sense other than that of pinpointing positions on a planiform geometric or cartographic grid. Place, on the other hand, situates, and it does so richly and diversely.” Place’s specificity lies in its “intensive magnitude and qualitative multiplicity.” 13 According to Casey, the modernist, geometric concept of absolute space brought about a temporary abandonment of place, until the German philosopher Immanuel Kant contributed to a revival of thinking about human-oriented place. In a relatively obscure essay of 1768, Kant mused upon the idea that we derive our sense of direction and orientation from the experience of our own bodies. We first understand the basic concepts of directionality—left and right, up and down, back and front, inside and outside—with relation to our bodies. “Concerning the things which exist outside ourselves: it is only in so far as they stand in relation to ourselves that we have any cognition of them by means of the senses at all.”14 Nearly two centuries later, phenomenology as well as humanistic geography would grow from Kant’s emphasis on the necessary role of the human body in making sense of space. To summarize the implications of Kant’s argument: if we can only understand space from the vantage point of our individual bodies—in other words, from the particular—then space, at its core, must be place.15 13. Ibid., 201. 14. Immanuel Kant, “Von dem ersten Grunde des Unterschiedes der Gegenden im Raume” (“Concerning the Ultimate Ground of the Differentiation of Regions in Space”), in Theoretical Philosophy, 1755–1770, ed. and trans. David Walford and Ralf Meerbote (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 365–66, quotation on 366. 15. Kant’s assertion about the body being the necessary center from which we understand space parallels his more general—and revolutionary—claims about human knowledge. Kant argues that all human knowledge derives from our own categories of perception. It is but a step from there to question whether what we perceive is indeed what really exists—whether there is an epistemological “bridge” between our human perceptions and what is. I will return to this notion later on.

Place and Literature  19 Casey follows Kant’s insight into the relationship between body and space from British mathematician and philosopher Alfred North Whitehead, who revisited it in the 1920s, to the phenomenologists Edmund Husserl and Maurice Merleau-Ponty. He credits this “microtradition” with the restoration of philosophical interest in the study of place. Whitehead, in Science and the Modern World (1925), criticizes the seventeenth century’s reduction of space to simple location, calling it a “fallacy of misplaced concreteness.”16 The fallacy consists in considering as real the neutral idea of spatial location, which is in fact an abstraction based on the reality of concrete, body-centered experience. Instead, Whitehead insists on the necessary implacement of the body, and thereby of all perception, including that of space. Husserl also asserts the centrality of the body in perception. Casey paraphrases Husserl thus: “[The body] is stationary in regard to itself, just as it is stable in relation to everything perceived around it. The true stabilitas loci is found not in God, the sun, or perduring landmarks but in myself: I, or more exactly my body-self, am the ‘always persisting point of relation’ for all that appears in my perceptual experience.”17 Places are realized through what Husserl calls “kinesthesia,” or the experience the body has of its own moving and resting. Finally, in his Phénoménologie de la perception (1945), Merleau-Ponty carries this even further: according to him, the body and its movements actually produce place.18 “Merleau-Ponty is claiming not only that the body provides a privileged point of access to place, or just that the body has unique powers vis-à-vis place. He is claiming that the places we inhabit are known by the bodies we live.”19 For MerleauPonty, then, body and lived place are tightly interwoven, even inseparable. Martin Heidegger also takes up the theme of place, but not from the perspective of body-implacement as did Kant, Whitehead, Hus16. Alfred North Whitehead, Science and the Modern World (New York: Macmillan, 1925), 72. See also Casey, Fate of Place, 212. 17. Casey, Fate of Place, 218. 18. Ibid., 229. 19. Ibid., 233.

20  Place and Literature serl, and Merleau-Ponty. In “Building Dwelling Thinking,” he posits the notion of dwelling (wohnen) as a fundamental mode of human existence. To dwell is to spare, “to leave something beforehand in its own nature”: “To dwell, to be set at peace, means to remain at peace within the free, the preserve, the free sphere that safeguards each thing in its nature. The fundamental character of dwelling is this sparing and preserving.”20 Geographer Edward Relph describes the Heideggerian notion of sparing in terms of commitment and responsibility for a place: “It is only through this type of sparing and care-taking that ‘home’ can be properly realized, and to have a home is to ‘dwell’—which is for Heidegger (1971) the essence of human existence and the basic character of Being.”21 In this way, then, the notions of sparing and dwelling join with the phenomenon of home which, according to Vincent Vycinas’s paraphrase of Heidegger, “used to be an overwhelming, inexchangeable something to which we were subordinate and from which our way of life was oriented and directed, even if we had left our home many years before.”22 In this Heideggerian notion of home as, to quote Relph, “an irreplaceable centre of significance,”23 we approach a point at which literature may take over from philosophy as the most apt means of expressing place. If home somehow holds the function of orienting us in the world, of giving us a meaningful center from which to under20. Martin Heidegger, “Building Dwelling Thinking” (1951), in Poetry, Language, Thought, trans. Albert Hofstadter (New York: Harper and Row, 1971), 149. Emphasis added. 21. E. Relph, Place and Placelessness (London: Pion, 1976), 39. 22. Vincent Vycinas, Earth and Gods: An Introduction to the Philosophy of Martin Heidegger (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1961), 84. Vycinas’s “used to be” evokes the sentiment, shared by Heidegger, Relph, and others that home has lost its meaning in our time; as Vycinas continues following the passage cited above, “Home nowadays is a distorted and perverted phenomenon. It is identical to a house; it can be anywhere” (84). Such declarations recall what E. R. Curtius termed the “World Upsidedown” topos: the commonplace rhetorical complaint of medieval literature that the good old days are gone, and now “everything is out of joint.” European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages, trans. Willard R. Trask. Bollingen series 36 (1948. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1983), 95. While certainly sincere, their exaggerated quality indicates an origin more affective than intellectual—not surprising, perhaps, in the emotional sphere of place. 23. Relph, Place and Placelessness, 39.

Place and Literature  21 stand what we see, then home is vitally connected to how we make sense of things. According to these philosophers, home, the body, and place are inextricably linked to how humans make meaning out of the world. This meaning might not always receive expression or even conscious awareness (indeed, most often perhaps it does not). When it does, it is expressed primarily through language (although not always, for there is also music, the visual arts, or architecture, for example). Within such linguistic expressions, literature holds a privileged status, for it tends to have meaning and interpretation as its focus and even as its reason for being. Among the deep and complex meanings expressed and explored through poetic language, the relationship human beings have with their homes and places has been one of the most common and consistent. This is true throughout many different times, cultures, and places. In Greco-Roman antiquity and the Middle Ages, a primary function of poetic language seemed to be to heighten awareness of place-belonging. This is certainly true of many medieval works. Reading, or, as was most often the case in medieval times, listening to a poem like the Life of Saint Alexis or the Song of Roland evokes a place for the audience. Through this evocation, the audience is led, somewhat paradoxically, to a new vision of its own place. In this way, the imaginary displacement involved in listening to a story results in a greater awareness of, and appreciation for, home. This strengthened implacement stems in part from the renewed perspective on home provided by any displacement, whether physical or poetic (as Joachim DuBellay wrote in sonnet 31 of Les Regrets, “Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage”). In some sense, then, we can say that place and poetry are bound in symbiotic fashion.24 As I have mentioned, diverse scholars of place studies have ex24. On another, more metaphorical level, the act of telling a story in the poetic language of a given time and location can create a poetic space that is strongly identified with an actual geographical space. For example, Karl D. Uitti argues that the tenth-century Old Provençal Song of Saint Fides contributed to the creation of a space both real and poetic: that of Occitania. “The Old Provençal Song of Saint Fides and the Occitanian Concept of Poetic Space,” L’Esprit Créateur 19.4 (1979): 17–36.

22  Place and Literature panded upon Heidegger’s thoughts about dwelling and home. Phenomenology, through its concern with the human body’s role in perceiving the world, glimpsed the possibilities of place, not as the geometric grid of absolute space, but as something intimately connected to the human person. Despite this insight, place was not phenomenology’s primary interest. In 1957, however, two works were published that did deal explicitly with the characteristics of space and place and that served as precursors to humanistic geography: Bachelard’s La Poétique de l’espace and Mircea Eliade’s The Sacred and the Profane. The philosopher Bachelard’s main focus is to explore, as he puts it, “l’activité propre de l’imagination pure” (“the activity characteristic of pure imagination”) as it relates to spaces, in particular what he calls “l’espace heureux” (“happy space”).25 He looks to poetic literature to supply him with images of these happy spaces, concentrating specifically on images of the house or of different forms of housing: drawers, nests, shells, and various nooks and crannies. Because Bachelard’s focus rests entirely on the human, psychological experience of these spaces, he can rightfully be named a precursor of humanistic geography (a debt geographer Yi-Fu Tuan acknowledges, albeit without reference, by picking up Bachelard’s neologism “topophilie” for the title of his 1974 book Topophilia). Our investigations could merit, in this sense, the name of topophilia. They aim to determine the human value of spaces of possession, of spaces defended against adversarial forces, of beloved spaces ..... Attached to their protective value, which can be positive, are also imagined values, and these values soon become dominant. Space grasped by the imagination cannot remain indifferent space, handed over to the measurements and reflections of the geometer. It is lived.26 25. Gaston Bachelard, La Poétique de l’espace (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1957), 20, 17. 26. “Nos enquêtes mériteraient, dans cette orientation, le nom de topophilie. Elles visent à déterminer la valeur humaine des espaces de possession, des espaces défendus contre des forces adverses, des espaces aimés ..... À leur valeur de protection qui peut être positive, s’attachent aussi des valeurs imaginées, et ces valeurs sont bientôt des valeurs

Place and Literature  23 And because Bachelard looks to literature as source material for his study, he also sets a precedent for the fruitful symbiosis of geographical and literary studies, although he did not use the term “geography” to refer to his work and is seldom cited by geographers dealing with literature. In The Sacred and the Profane, the historian of religion Eliade considers the concept of hierophany, or “the act of manifestation of the sacred.”27 Eliade does not differentiate between the terms space and place, but it is clear that his use of the term sacred space resembles closely what I have called place: “For the religious man, space is not homogeneous ..... some parts of space are qualitatively different from others ..... There is, then, a sacred space, and hence a strong, significant space.”28 For the religious man, Eliade argues, these sacred spaces of hierophany offer a foundation for the world, giving it orientation and an absolute fixed point. They become a “center of the world.” Even nonreligious people seem to need these centering spaces: Yet this experience of profane space still includes values that to some extent recall the nonhomogeneity peculiar to the religious experience of space. There are, for example, privileged places, qualitatively different from all others—a man’s birthplace, or the scenes of his first love ..... they are the “holy places” of his private universe, as if it were in such spots that he had received the revelation of a reality other than that in which he participates through his ordinary daily life.29

In an intriguing similarity with Heidegger, as well as Whitehead and Husserl, the thought of homogeneous space seems to provoke a certain anxiety for Eliade. The homogeneity of what Eliade calls “profane space” implies disorientation and chaos:

dominantes. L’espace saisi par l’imagination ne peut rester l’espace indifférent livré à la mesure et à la réflexion du géomètre. Il est vécu.” Ibid., 17. 27. Mircea Eliade, The Sacred and the Profane: The Nature of Religion (1957), trans. Willard R. Trask (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1959), 11. 28. Ibid., 20. 29. Ibid., 24.

24  Place and Literature Revelation of a sacred space makes it possible to obtain a fixed point and hence to acquire orientation in the chaos of homogeneity, to “found the world” and to live in a real sense. The profane experience, on the contrary, maintains the homogeneity and hence the relativity of space. No true orientation is now possible ..... Properly speaking, there is no longer any world, there are only fragments of a shattered universe, an amorphous mass consisting of an infinite number of more or less neutral places in which man moves.30

It is precisely the non-homogeneity of sacred space that orients the world. This represents a fascinating reversal from thinkers like Descartes or Newton, who saw uniform space as a model of order.31 Thus, while Whitehead and Husserl turn to the body for a point of orientation, and Heidegger to home, Eliade turns to the revelation of the sacred. In each case, we can discern the wish to humanize space—in short, to make place out of space. Eliade conceives of sacred space as a location where an irruption has occurred, allowing a connection between the usually separate planes of underworld, Earth, and heaven. Sacred space affords humanity something crucial: access to transcendence. Without it, Eliade argues, the world would become chaotic and bereft of meaning for the religious person. For such a person, the notion of sacred space is not just theory, but real: “For primitives as for the man of all pre-modern societies, the sacred is equivalent to a power, and in the last analysis, to reality ..... Sacred power means reality and at the same time enduringness and efficacy.”32 Eliade’s attention to the meaningfulness of place and his insistence on its role in our well-being opened up a new field of possibilities for place studies. Rather than approach place from the perspective of another discipline (religion, philosophy, etc.), as do the 30. Ibid., 23–24. 31. For a discussion of Eliade’s categories of time and space, see Jonathan Z. Smith, “The Wobbling Pivot,” in Map Is Not Territory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 88–103. 32. Eliade, Sacred and Profane, 12.

Place and Literature  25 thinkers I have described thus far, place is the disciplinary focus of humanistic geography, which examines how human beings attach value to the places they inhabit. Yi-Fu Tuan, in Topophilia (1974)— considered a foundational text of humanistic geography—announces his intention to conduct a study of environmental perception from the perspective of “the formation of attitudes and values.”33 Tuan designates topophilia as the recurrent theme of his book, defining it thus: “Topophilia is the affective bond between people and place or setting.” Place at times becomes “the carrier of emotionally charged events or [is] perceived as a symbol.”34 Tuan continues his study of the affective ties binding human beings to their environment in Space and Place: The Perspective of Experience (1977). He defines the terms space and place in a manner closely resembling my own juxtaposition of spatiality and place: “ ‘Space’ is more abstract than ‘place.’ What begins as undifferentiated space becomes place as we get to know it better and endow it with value.” Place, then, is “a center of felt value.”35 Tuan relates the ability to become emotionally or spiritually attached to places, especially large ones such as a nation (of which no one can have total direct experience), to the “symbol-making” capacity of human beings.36 In chapter 10, “Intimate Experiences of Place,” Tuan repeatedly insists that our connection to others is an essential component of both the value we attribute to places and the meaning we give to things in general. “In the absence of the right people, things and places are quickly drained of meaning.”37 To underscore this point, Tuan recounts a passage from Saint Augustine’s Confessions (Book 4, 4:9): “Saint Augustine’s native city, Thagaste, was transformed for him with the death of his childhood friend. The great theologian wrote: 33. Yi-Fu Tuan, Topophilia: A Study of Environmental Perception, Attitudes, and Values (New York: Columbia University Press, 1974), 1. 34. Ibid., 4, 93. 35. Yi-Fu Tuan, Space and Place: The Perspective of Experience (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1977), 6, 4. 36. Ibid., 18. 37. Ibid., 140.

26  Place and Literature ‘My heart was now darkened by grief, and everywhere I looked I saw death. My native haunts became a scene of torture to me, and my own home a misery ..... I hated all the places where we used to meet, because they could no longer say to me, “Look, here he comes,” as they once did.38 As this passage shows, places have the power of evoking in the most vivid terms the people and events of our lives. In Place and Placelessness (1976), Edward Relph develops themes similar to those discussed by Tuan but concentrates more heavily on the philosophical and psychological implications of placeattachment. He discusses at length what he calls “the essence of place” in chapter 3, examining its various properties, such as location, landscape, and links to community. In a point of considerable importance to the study of nomadic or wandering figures (a trait shared by Alexis, Roland, and Tristan at different times in their stories), he notes that being in a certain location “is neither a necessary nor a sufficient condition of place” and that “mobility or nomadism do not preclude an attachment to place.”39 According to Relph, people are able to put down roots very quickly. He also suggests that there is such a thing as a “spirit of a place [that] lies in its landscape” and that allows a place to maintain its identity through even extreme external changes, such as war and destruction.40 Like Tuan, Relph stresses the importance of other people in creating place: community reinforces place as place reinforces community. Psychologically, place also provides people with an essential sense of rootedness: “To have roots in a place is to have a secure point from which to look out on the world, a firm grasp of one’s own position in the order of things, and a significant spiritual and psychological attachment to somewhere in particular.”41 Relph’s study of the value of place, the most thorough and profound discussion of the subject I have read, represents in many ways a call to action. He examines at length what he considers the en38. Ibid. 40. Ibid., 30.

39. Relph, Place and Placelessness, 29. 41. Ibid., 38.

Place and Literature  27 croaching “placelessness” of the modern world, maintaining that the loss of attachment to places constitutes a “real deprivation.”42 Human beings need to maintain “a relationship of being between man and the world that gives meaning”: “A deep relationship with places is as necessary, and perhaps as unavoidable, as close relationships with people; without such relationships human existence, while possible, is bereft of much of its significance.”43 For Relph, as well as for Tuan and others, one cannot overstate how important place is to human experience. It corresponds to man’s need and ability to live in a world of symbols and meaning. If one accepts this premise, then it seems impossible not to remark on the affinity between place and literature as strong reflections of the human capacity to make meaning. Indeed, a few humanistic geographers have touched on the potential usefulness of literary works for their field. Tuan states that literary art serves the geographer in three principal ways: “As thought experiment on possible modes of human experience and relationship ..... as artifact [that] reveals the environmental perceptions and values of a culture ..... [and] as an ambitious attempt to balance the subjective and the objective [that] is a model for geographical synthesis.”44 Relph also suggests that “to capture, comprehend and communicate ‘essential character’ [of places or people] depends largely on artistic insight and literary ability.”45 Vincent Berdoulay notes in a 1989 article that place seems to operate like an “autonomous entity,” with an “inner capacity to produce meaning,” adding that “a geographic account of place is like a whole staging process whereby people, objects, and messages are coordinated. It is like telling a story. My point is that the study of place has a strong nar42. Ibid., 145. 43. Ibid., 42, 41. 44. Yi-Fu Tuan, “Literature and Geography: Implications for Geographical Research,” in Humanistic Geography: Prospects and Problems, ed. David Ley and Marwyn S. Samuels (Chicago: Maaroufa Press, 1978), 194–206, quotation on 205. Tuan’s remark that literary art attempts to “balance the subjective and the objective” echoes our own attempt to do the same through the spatiality/place distinction. 45. Relph, Place and Placelessness, 44.

28  Place and Literature rative component.”46 When these and other humanistic geographers approach literature, they mainly do so in order to, as Douglas Pocock notes, “explore imaginative literature for insights into the experience of the man-environment relationship”;47 in other words, in order to use literature as source material for geographical studies.48 While geographers have observed the relevance of literary examples for the study of place, with rare exceptions their studies have only rarely gone beyond this observation of fact (due possibly to disciplinary limitations). Perhaps literary scholars, who have not yet capitalized on the relevance of place for their field, might be better able to ascertain and articulate what literature can tell us about place.

Pla ce in the Biblical Tradition : A Binary View The medieval clerics who wrote Alexis, Roland, and Tristan knew well the archetypal Old Testament tales of exile, among them Adam and Eve’s banishment from the Garden of Eden and the Israelites’ enslavement in Egypt and subsequent search for the Promised Land. The Hebraic tradition attaches high value to a people’s belonging to a specific place. A close reading of the best-known books of the Old Testament, however, reveals not only a profound reverence for place in Hebraic tradition, but also, paradoxically, a sense of detachment from place. Jonathan Z. Smith and many others trace this combination of reverence and detachment to the loss of the Temple and the subsequent Jewish diaspora.49 This doubled attitude, which at46. Vincent Berdoulay, “Place, Meaning, and Discourse in French Language Geography,” in The Power of Place, ed. John Agnew and James Duncan (Boston: Unwin Hyman, 1989), 124–39, quotation on 134. Emphasis added. 47. Douglas C. D. Pocock, ed., Humanistic Geography and Literature: Essays on the Experience of Place (London: Croom Helm, 1981), 17. 48. See, for example, ibid., and J. Silk, “Beyond Geography and Literature,” Society and Space 2 (1984): 151–78. 49. Jonathan Z. Smith, Map Is Not Territory (1978; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 119–28.

Place and Literature  29 tributes to place-attachment both positive and negative values and which can be seen in many texts of the Christian Middle Ages (including Roland and Alexis), has roots in the Old Testament tradition. Smith extends it to an even more universal source, seeing in it the mythical opposition of the center and the trickster, or what Smith terms, respectively, the locative and utopian visions of the world. In the former, “man finds a place to dwell and on which he found [sic] his existence”; while the latter suggests “the problematic nature of existence and fundamental tension in the cosmos.”50 This binary attitude toward place corresponds to a binary conception of exile and estrangement. Gerhart Ladner notes this binarism of exile, without referring to its Jewish origins: “Mediaeval thought had derived from its early Christian sources not one, but two ideas of alienation, and was to make them lastingly its own: estrangement from God and estrangement from the world.”51 Therefore, in Judeo-Christian tradition, exile develops according to a dichotomy that has continued to feature prominently in western culture. (We see it in stories of people loving their hometown while at the same longing to escape its drudgery, or in the tension between globalization and “buy local” movements, for example.) Especially in the pursuit of an extraordinary life—of holiness, self-discovery, or ambition—the identity and security of place must be counterbalanced by the willingness to leave one’s belonging behind. Exile can therefore be seen in two interrelated and paradigmatic manners. On the one hand, exile is considered a terrible fate, an undesirable and alienating banishment. It evicts the individual or group from the social and spatial belonging that characterize human life. The archetype here is Adam and Eve’s expulsion from the Garden of Eden as described in the Book of Genesis. When Adam and Eve disobey God, they remove themselves from divine order. This spiritual 50. Ibid., 100–101. 51. Gerhart B. Ladner, “Homo Viator: Mediaeval Ideas on Alienation and Order,” Speculum 42 (1967): 233–59, quotation on 237–38.

30  Place and Literature reality finds physical expression as they are exiled from the paradisiacal place of origins chosen for them by God. Their exile from perfect communion with God manifests itself in a threefold estrangement: from the earth (they must now till the soil which once gave its fruit freely), from each other (they now have separate social roles to play), and from themselves (they now clothe themselves out of shame of their own bodies). Adam and Eve’s alienation is of the type Ladner describes as “a failure to love God and a refusal to adhere to the order which he had given. It is, therefore, something very evil, something to be avoided at all cost.”52 However, another, more positive perspective on exile is possible. According to this perspective, exile represents a reflection of the human condition rather than a painful exception to the normative human experience of belonging; in other words, to be human is to be exiled from God, who is our only place of true belonging.53 Within this perspective, described by Gershom Scholem, Armand Abécassis, and other scholars of Jewish thought, exile is existential rather than accidental, a locus of deep metaphysical meaning.54 The concept of existential exile does not contradict the notion of exilebanishment but rather extends it to a universal scale, underlining the fact that all human belonging is imperfect. Indeed, Adam and Eve’s story, read as a reflection of the human condition, tells us that man was cast out of his space of origins because of his fundamental inability to belong fully and harmoniously within that space. Exile thus becomes a rule for all humanity. In this way, for Abécassis, the Jewish diaspora represents a paradigm of the human condition: we can belong nowhere in a world that has not yet been redeemed by the Messiah. Paradoxically, this exile, which expresses human alien52. Ibid., 235. 53. Various Jewish festival liturgies even refer to God as “the place”; for example, “Blessed by the Place” begins certain prayers and readings. I am grateful to my colleague Oren Kosansky for this insight. 54. Gershom Scholem, The Messianic Idea in Judaism and Other Essays on Jewish Spirituality (New York: Schocken Books, 1971), 37–48; Armand Abécassis, La Pensée juive, 3 vols. (Paris: Librairie Générale Française, Coll. Biblio essais, 1987).

Place and Literature  31 ation from the world, defines the Jews as a people, thus reaffirming belonging on the social, if not spatial, level. Christianity’s belief in a world already redeemed by the Messiah modifies this diasporic concept of exile by reworking it into the context of the evangelical mission. Jesus’ words “My kingship is not from the world” (John 18:36) inspire Christians to consider themselves also as “not of this world.” A more positive interpretation of exile develops, taking on connotations of detachment from worldly values, as it did for example in Saint Augustine’s City of God and in the writings of Gregory the Great.55

Holy Pla ce s : S ome N ote s on Medieval Pilgrima ge and Crusade When La Vie de saint Alexis, La Chanson de Roland, and the early versions of the Tristan legend were composed, pilgrimage was widespread, in particular to the Holy Lands. Moreover, when Alexis and Roland were written (ca. 1086 and 1080, respectively) the First Crusade would soon be declared (in 1095), while the Tristan versions in question were written around the period of the Second (1145–49) and Third Crusades (1189–92). The phenomena of medieval pilgrimage and crusade, which were inspired in considerable part by place and its value, offer us insight into how place was viewed in the eleventh and twelfth centuries and reveal how very potent and essential was the human connection to place at this time. In this way, they give us a context for understanding the intensity of Alexis and Roland’s bond to France and Rome respectively, and the deficiency represented by Tristan’s placelessness.

55. Ladner, “Homo Viator,” 234–43.

32  Place and Literature Pilgrimage Beginnings of a Tradition By the end of the first millennium, the Christian practice of pilgrimage was well established. According to Steven Runciman, the tenth and eleventh centuries represent “the great age of pilgrimage,” in which parties sometimes numbering in the thousands made their way to Jerusalem, spending more than a year on the voyage.56 The increasing popularity of pilgrimage at this time soon took another form involving even greater numbers: the Crusades. Long before this pilgrimage “boom,” however, individuals were making the journey in small numbers, intent on experiencing the place where, they believed, God had chosen to become man. As the eastern religion of Christianity expanded from Palestine, its believers found themselves increasingly removed from the physical location that had served as the setting for Christ’s life and death. In effect, the universal vocation of the new religion demanded and created an entirely new paradigm for relating to place. When Christ told his apostles, “Go into all the world and preach the gospel to the whole creation” (Mark 16:15),57 he was effectively detaching the gospel and the Christian faith from a specific spatial location. It would be some time before place would exert its pull on the new faith. A paradigm shift took place in the new Christian religion around the fourth century ad. With the Roman Emperor Constantine’s conversion to Christianity in ad 312, Christianity—originally a 56. Steven Runciman, A History of the Crusades, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1951), 1:43. For an anthropological approach to Christian pilgrimage, cf. Victor Turner and Edith Turner, Image and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture: Anthropological Perspectives (New York: Columbia University Press, 1978). Chapter 5 of the Turners’ work, “Locality and Universality in Medieval Pilgrimages,” deals specifically with medieval pilgrimage. 57. “Euntes in mundum universum praedicate Evangelium omni creaturae.” I provide biblical quotes in Latin because medieval people, including the clerics who wrote the works under consideration in this book, would have read the Bible in this language. They are from Biblia Sacra (Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 2002). Biblical quotes in English are from the New Oxford Annotated Bible with the Apocrypha, Revised Standard Version, ed. Herbert G. May and Bruce M. Metzger (New York: Oxford University Press, 1977).

Place and Literature  33 small, persecuted, and undeniably eastern faith—grew into a religion of state and power. In a parallel development, the practice of pilgrimage, rare until then, began to thrive as Christianity pervaded the West. How can one account for this rise of pilgrimage? In its early years, the new church derived its impetus from the universal import of Christ’s message. From a religious point of view, this early ecumenical focus seems a faithful reflection of the most revolutionary characteristic of Jesus of Nazareth’s preaching. Jesus was a Jew, and his moral teachings, while revolutionary in many respects, were steeped in Jewish tradition. What made his message so original was the fact that it was meant for everyone, regardless of nationality, status, religion, or profession. The first apostles clearly understood this to be at the heart of their faith and their calling, judging from their very early journeys to bring the Word to foreign lands. There is also another explanation for Christianity’s shift from an outward-looking to a more place-centered perspective. In the years and decades following Christ’s life and death, his historicity—his authentic presence as a man who had lived in Palestine—must still have seemed very real. There was no need to emphasize it, and early Christians’ energies were devoted instead to the pressing call to spread the universal message of Christ. With the passage of time, however, they began to feel the need to reaffirm what was for them a central truth: that God had become a real, human presence among them. While Christ was no longer physically present, the places where he had lived remained. When all those who had known Jesus of Nazareth were gone, these places represented the last enduring physical link to his humanity. (The purported relics of Christ that also proliferated fulfilled a similar function and participated in parallel fashion in strengthening the notion of Christian holy places.) Steven Runciman offers a succinct explanation for the infrequency of pilgrimage in early Christianity: “In the earliest days of Christianity pilgrimages were rare. Early Christian thought tended to emphasize the godhead and the universality of Christ rather than

34  Place and Literature the manhood; and the Roman authorities did not encourage a voyage to Palestine.”58 For Runciman, it was the pilgrimage of Constantine’s mother, Saint Helena, whom he playfully calls “the most successful of the world’s great archaeologists,” that started the trend.59 Based on her “discovery” of the site of the Passion, Constantine built on Mount Calvary the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, which was to remain for centuries a focal point of Christian pilgrimage and belief. In his compelling study of Christian thought regarding Palestine over the centuries, Robert Wilken also notes the early church’s change in attitude toward holy places. About early Christian sources, Wilken remarks, “What they say about space appears to dethrone place as the locus of the divine presence.”60 Jesus’ own words express this notion: “The hour is coming when neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem will you worship the Father ..... God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth” (John 4:21, 4:24).61 In particular, the decreased emphasis on the idea of holy place traces back to Origen, a Christian theologian of the third century. Origen sought to dispel the notion of chiliasm, the belief that God’s future kingdom would be established on Earth, in Jerusalem. For him, the Old Testament prophecies regarding the coming of the Messiah had been fulfilled through Jesus and would not be fulfilled again. Furthermore, the belief that the divine can be found in particular places was reminiscent of paganism. For Origen, the primary significance of 58. Runciman, History of the Crusades, 1:38. 59. Ibid., 1:39. 60. Robert L. Wilken, The Land Called Holy: Palestine in Christian History and Thought (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1992), 91. Interestingly, Sara Japhet sees a similar opposition in Jewish biblical thought between a “universal concept of God’s presence” and “an intensification of the sanctity of the city” of Jerusalem, stating that this latter notion of place’s sanctity was extended to the land of Israel in post-biblical periods. This could indicate that the universal/locational opposition present in Christianity is inherited from Judaism, however it may have manifested along history’s timeline. Cf. “Some Biblical Concepts of Sacred Place,” Sacred Space: Shrine, City, Land, ed. B. Z. Kedar and R. J. Zwi Werblowsky (New York: New York University Press, 1998), 55–72, quotation on 70. 61. “Venit hora, quando neque in monte hoc, neque in Ierosolymis adorabitis Patrem ..... Spiritus est Deus: et eos qui adorant eum, in spiritu et veritate oportet adorare.”

Place and Literature  35 Palestine has changed: rather than being the site of God’s future kingdom on Earth, Palestine is the place in which divinity was made human. Origen writes movingly on this subject: “But of all the marvelous and splendid things about him there is one that utterly transcends the limits of human wonder ..... namely, how this mighty power of the divine majesty, the very word of the Father ..... can be believed to have existed within the compass of that man who appeared in Judea.”62 This evolution from the notion of a heavenly Jerusalem to that of earthly Jerusalem as place of commemoration is rendered concrete by Constantine, and recorded in Vita Constantini by his biographer, Eusebius. Before Constantine, “The tomb of Christ was buried beneath tons of dirt, and over it stood a pagan temple.” Wilken credits Constantine with the creation of a Christian Jerusalem, and Eusebius with the first Christian conceptualization of “the religious and theological significance of space.” For Eusebius, Jerusalem deserves the Christian’s utmost devotion because it is the place in which Jesus lived his life; in his writing, Wilken comments, “The term place (topos) has become incandescent, afire with energy and potency.” 63 J. Z. Smith also discusses this key moment in western history when “Constantine created, for the first time, a Christian ‘Holy Land,’ laid palimpsest-like over the old, and interacting with it in complex ways, having for its central foci a series of imperialdynastic churches.”64 Smith’s theory reverses Eliade’s concept of hierophany. Instead of accepting that certain places are sacred because 62. Origen, De principiis, 2.6.2, in On First Principles, ed. and trans. G. W. Butterworth (New York: Harper Torchbooks, 1966), 109. Emphasis added. 63. Wilken, Land Called Holy, 88. Others offer slightly different rationales for this shift. Brian Stock discusses it in terms of literacy: for an illiterate audience, places were “embedded texts” through which to learn about Christ (“Reading, Community and a Sense of Place,” in Place/Culture/Representation, ed. James Duncan and David Ley [London: Routledge, 1993], 314–28, quotation on 322–23). R. A. Markus contends that the initial impetus for the creation of Christian holy places was given by local martyr cults (“How on Earth Could Places become Holy? Origins of the Christian Idea of Holy Places,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 2, no. 3 [1994]: 257–71). 64. Jonathan Z. Smith, To Take Place: Toward Theory in Ritual (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 79.

36  Place and Literature the divine has manifested itself there, Smith contends that human beings make place sacred, through ritual, for example. The meaningfulness of a place is brought into being by an act of human intellection. In this way, Constantine, Eusebius, and others made Jerusalem into a sacred place for Christians. For Smith, the impact of what he calls “the fourth-century creation of Christian Jerusalem” on Christian ritual is enormous: “It was contact with the loca sancta of nowChristian Palestine in the fourth century that transformed Christian ritual into a celebration of the historical and syntagmatic as well as, in Palestine, the topographic.”65 The Christian myth (the life and deeds of Christ) projected itself retrospectively onto the land of Palestine to create the meaning of the place. Smith’s thesis, while convincing on many counts, does not fully take into account the belief that early Christians like Origen found so astonishing: that God chose to become a man in the particular place of Judea. Within the Christian perspective, this manifestation of the divine in space happened; it is history. It is not only the retrospective projection of a myth that sanctifies Judea, but the undeniable fact that God showed up there and not anywhere else. Rather than the unidirectional movement of meaning from ritual to place described by Smith, place takes on meaning through a web of interconnected exchange that brings transcendence, place, and man together. For medieval pilgrims, God created the world, God had lived in a particular place in the world, God had known men through place, and men had known and could still know God through place and place through God. If we want to understand how a phenomenon like the Crusades could happen, the factors of transcendence, incarnation, and revelation must be part of our thinking about place. These matters were not just ritual for medieval men and women, they were real history. As we have seen, many factors contributed to the emergence of the Christian pilgrimage to Palestine; among them, the Christianization of the Roman Empire, theological doctrine, and the need to re65. Ibid., 88, 114.

Place and Literature  37 affirm Christ’s existence as a real, historical figure. However diverse the reasons may be for the gradual reanchoring of the new Christian faith in the holy places of Palestine, the phenomenon is incontestable. In retrospective accounts, Saint Helena is seen as having inaugurated the trend. Dorothea French describes sixth-century legends, according to which St. Helena discovered the True Cross on Mount Calvary as well as many other important biblical sites, noting, “The developing pilgrimage sites gained authenticity and prestige when their foundations were grafted onto older roots and consecrated by the association with a holy woman.”66 From the fourth century on, the Jerusalem pilgrimage became increasingly common. As this and other pilgrimages grew in importance, they gradually became associated with the notion of canonical penances.67 As Runciman puts it, “The belief was growing that certain holy places possessed a definite spiritual value which affected those that visited them and could even grant indulgences from sin.”68 This efficacy, according to Runciman, was associated with four places: Saint James at Compostella, Saint Michael at Monte Gargano, Rome, and Palestine. The belief in the power of certain places to absolve one’s sins reached its culminating point in the Crusades. How could the pilgrimage journey have such a powerful influence in affairs of the soul? Part of the answer lies in the allegorical and symbolic resonances of pilgrimage.

Pilgrimage as Allegory As previously noted, exile has generally been regarded in two different ways over the centuries. From one perspective, exile is an unholy banishment; from the other, exile offers an outward reflec66. Dorothea R. French, “Journeys to the Center of the Earth: Medieval and Renaissance Pilgrimages to Mount Calvary,” Journeys toward God: Pilgrimage and Crusade, ed. Barbara N. Sargent-Baur (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, Western Michigan University, 1992), 45–81, quotation on 54. 67. On penitential pilgrimage, cf. Turner and Turner, Image and Pilgrimage, 193–96. 68. Runciman, History of the Crusades, 1:44.

38  Place and Literature tion of an inner truth, namely, that man’s higher nature is not of this world. In many ways, the practice of pilgrimage enacts in ritual manner this second, “existential” exile. For many Christian thinkers, pilgrimage serves as a profound allegory of human life, which is considered as a journey to heaven, humanity’s only true home.69 Within this allegorical perspective, concrete aspects of pilgrimage, for example, the specific destination, the rites and liturgies accomplished there, or the results obtained, are of secondary importance. Of course, in pilgrimage as it was actually practiced, these realities were of crucial significance. This contradiction points out the limits of the allegorical view in explaining pilgrimage as a historical phenomenon. As with many religious phenomena, there is a certain disjunction between the theological theories elaborated by Church intellectuals and the practices of the faithful. Nevertheless, it is worthwhile to understand the allegorical resonances of pilgrimage because they heavily influenced prominent medieval proponents of pilgrimage and crusade, such as the Cluniacs, and thus represented “essential ingredients of early Christian and medieval thought and life.”70

The Jewish Tradition of Diaspora  When Christian theologians began to develop the idea of pilgrimage as an allegory of the human condition, they were in fact reconnecting with the long tradition of Jewish thought concerning the diaspora. This remains true despite the fact that many of these Christian thinkers were inattentive to, if not ignorant of, any such shared heritage.71 We can see a source of this notion in the Genesis Creation stories, in which the rupture of 69. Haviva Pedaya describes a similar notion, developed in kabbalah, that of “the idea of return” to the place of Divinity. “Existence is seen as the departure from a primal point, redemption as the return to that very same point” (“The Divinity as Place and Time and the Holy Place in Jewish Mysticism,” in Sacred Space: Shrine, City, Land, ed. B. Z. Kedar and R. J. Zwi Werblowsky [New York: New York University Press, 1998], 84–111, quotation on 92). This kabbalistic notion has some affinity with Augustine’s idea of the pilgrim City of God (see below). 70. Ladner, “Homo Viator” 233. 71. Contemporary Jewish thinkers like Abécassis have pointed out Christianity’s failure to appreciate the Jewish roots of their faith.

Place and Literature  39 man’s union with God and with the earth becomes the ineluctable condition of all humanity. According to this paradigm, this world is not where man belongs. When God calls upon Abraham to be the father of his chosen people, he promises him many descendents and a land for his people but imposes one condition: Abraham must leave his country and become a stranger in exile. In this way, the Jewish people are in exile from the very beginning. During the time of the Patriarchs, they live a nomadic existence. In the time of Moses, they are exiled in Egypt and then in the desert. They begin to settle in Palestine during the period of the Judges, and finally create a homeland during the reign of David, with Jerusalem as their capital. This prosperity doesn’t last long; wars, conquests, and foreign domination follow one upon the other, and the Jewish people are dispersed, deported, and persecuted through the centuries and throughout the world. Not until 1948 is the modern state of Israel created in Palestine. And still, many Jews choose not to live in Israel. Some find a religious significance in their preference for a life in diaspora that is akin to the Christian allegorical view of pilgrimage. In Old Testament tradition, the bestowal of the Promised Land was conditional. Alliance with God and respect for his moral law preceded and supported man’s relationship to a land that would become his. This implies that the Jewish people must achieve a just relationship with God and with others before possessing a homeland. From this perspective, Jewish wandering and exile take on the meaning of a moral apprenticeship: “You shall not oppress a stranger; you know the heart of a stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt” (Exodus 23:9).72 Diaspora also reflects the inner progression of the Jew who strives to give life to God’s Law within himself. The Law, divine and perfect, calls man to live morally in the world. The Law stands in opposition 72. “Peregrino molestus non eris. Scitis enim advenarum animas: quia et ipsi peregrini fuistis in terra Aegypti.”

40  Place and Literature to the natural world, which is neither moral nor perfect. Thus, its fulfillment on Earth by man represents something of a paradox, a determined striving toward a goal that will always remain out of reach. As Abécassis explains, Jewish diaspora and exile reflect this internal quest: “We understand that the history of Yahweh’s people is a tearing away, a perpetual uprooting and exile, even in its own land. It cannot, as itself, be fully of this world, even in Jerusalem its capital. It lives the universal human existence and it must remain faithful to what is most human in man: what he seeks to be, more than what he is.”73 In addition to developing the moral and metaphysical resonances of exile, Jewish tradition also hands down to Christianity its concept of Jerusalem as a holy place. To be sure, for Christians, Jerusalem and the lands surrounding it derive much of their sacredness from having been the location of the Incarnation. However, because Jesus was himself a Jew, and clearly perceived his message as a fulfillment, and not a negation, of Jewish faith, Christianity shares with Judaism “the same patriarchs, the same revelation, the same original texts, the same principles, and the same Father.”74 The Old Testament elaboration of Jerusalem’s significance provides a foundation for Christianity’s understanding of place. Without the Jewish tradition of reverence for Jerusalem, the Holy Lands would not have resonated so strongly with medieval Christians. According to Wilken, Jerusalem was initially a Canaanite town of little importance. It became significant for the Jews, and in retrospect for all of western civilization, when it was captured by David, the leader of the Israelites. It was they who created the majestic and sacred city of the Bible, Jerusalem. Very soon after capturing Jeru73. “On comprend que l’histoire du peuple de YHWH soit un arrachement, un déracinement et un exil perpétuels, même sur sa propre terre. Il ne peut, en tant que tel, être pleinement de ce monde, même à Jérusalem, sa capitale. Il vit l’existence humaine universelle et il doit rester fidèle à ce qui dans l’homme est le plus humain: ce qu’il cherche à être plus que ce qu’il est” (Abécassis, La Pensée juive, 1:276). All translations from French are mine unless otherwise noted. 74. “les mêmes patriarches, la même révélation, les mêmes textes à l’origine, les mêmes principes et le même Père” (Ibid., 3:45).

Place and Literature  41 salem, David brought the ark of the Covenant to the city and thus implaced the divine: “The ark was the symbol of God’s presence in the midst of Israel, and with its removal to Jerusalem God’s presence was no longer portable; holiness was now bound to place.”75 This centrality of Jerusalem in Jewish identity has endured to the present day. Although many peoples have been attached to particular lands, and many have been exiled from them, the Jewish people are perhaps unique in having maintained such strong ties to their homeland over so many centuries: “Jewish tradition made the loss of the land and the exile a central fact of Jewish self-understanding even after the return of exiles from Babylonia.”76

Augustine’s Peregrinatio and the Christian Allegory of Pilgrimage In an article on the terms peregrinatio (pilgrimage) and peregrini (pilgrim) in Saint Augustine’s City of God, M. A. Claussen contextualizes this work by elaborating upon the various legal, philosophical, and theological ramifications of such pilgrimage-related terms.77 As Ladner has also pointed out, the Augustinian notion of Civitas dei peregrinans—or the pilgrim City of God—strongly influenced Christian thinking about the role of faith and of God’s Church in the world.78 Central to this concept is the idea that God’s people must pass through this world as though they were on a pilgrimage. Later, Gregory the Great, who was pope from 590–604, developed a very similar doctrine of the appropriate Christian attitude toward earthly life. The writings of Augustine and Gregory exerted considerable influence on medieval Church doctrine. What do they mean when they speak of godly life as a pilgrimage? According to Claussen, the verb peregrinor, when used by the 75. Wilken, Land Called Holy, 9. Emphasis added. 76. Ibid., 21. For a structuralist reading of the notion of sacred space in Judaism, cf. Seth Kunin, God’s Place in the World: Sacred Space and Sacred Place in Judaism (London: Cassell, 1998). 77. M. A. Claussen, “Peregrinatio and Peregrini in Augustine’s City of God,” Traditio: Studies in Ancient and Medieval History, Thought, and Religion 46 (1991): 33–75. 78. Ladner, “Homo Viator,” 236.

42  Place and Literature classical authors, generally meant “to live abroad,” and connotes the condition of being in a foreign country or a stranger. Plotinus, a neoPlatonist philosopher of the third century ad who influenced Augustine, describes the wise man’s life as a search for “our country from which we came,” in other words, the Good.79 Augustine takes up this notion of alienation from the world, and transforms Plotinus’s search for patria into a peregrinatio, a pilgrimage. Early Christian Latin thinkers such as Tertullian also emphasized the Christian’s status as a peregrinus. Tertullian gives the term a spiritual meaning, related to the quest for truth, and casts truth as a wanderer on the Earth. In his use of the term peregrinatio, Tertullian relies on an understanding of its use in Roman law, which his concept both derives from and transforms (as does Augustine’s). In the Roman legal system, a peregrinus does not have the same rights as a citizen. He cannot exercise dominium—ownership by full legal title— but instead has only, at best, ususfructus (the right to use and enjoy something without owning it), or usus (the right to use something, without enjoying its fruits). Augustine transforms this legal notion into a spiritual doctrine according to which the peregrinus may use the goods of the earth but may never own them. The Christian pilgrim is not a full-fledged citizen of the earth, but only a visitor, rather like a guest to whom hospitality is offered.80 The New Testament also contains many echoes of this notion of foreignness. In his first epistle, Peter writes, “Beloved, I beseech you as aliens and exiles to abstain from the passions of the flesh” (1 Peter 2:11).81 Paul employs this image as well: “These all died in faith, not having received what was promised, but having seen it and greeted it from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth” (Hebrews 11:13);82 or “We know that while 79. Plotinus, “On Beauty,” Plotinus, trans. A. H. Armstrong (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, Loeb Classical Library, 1978), 1:256–57. 80. See Claussen, “Peregrinatio and Peregrini,” 37–51. 81. “Charissimi, obsecro vos tamquam advenas et peregrinos abstinere vos a carnalibus desideriis.” Emphasis added. 82. “Iuxta fidem defuncti sunt omnes isti, non acceptis repromissionibus, sed a

Place and Literature  43 we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord” (1 Corinthians 5:6).83 (In this last verse, “away from the Lord” translates the Latin “peregrinamur a Domino”—literally, “traveling / on a pilgrimage away from God.”) In each case, we understand that a person of faith passes through the world as a stranger on a temporary visit. The second- (or early third-) century anonymous “Address to Diognetus” emphasizes this same notion: “[Christians] live in their native lands, but like foreigners. They take part in everything like citizens, and endure everything like foreigners. Every foreign country is their native land, and every native land a foreign country ..... They remain on earth, but they are citizens of heaven.”84 Claussen expresses this notion thus: “The church as peregrina remains, by her very nature, a foreigner and a stranger, a wayfarer and an alien, in the world.”85 Ladner also credits Gregory the Great and his Moralia for developing the allegorical view of Christian pilgrimage. In his discussion, Gregory relies on the binary opposition that, as we now realize, serves as paradigm for much thinking about exile, diaspora, and alienation. From one perspective, Lucifer is the archetypal alienus, who has fallen away from God and his divine order: this kind of alienation connotes evil. (The imposed penalty of banishment often results in this sort of alienation.) On the other hand, however, the Christian knows that he is a pilgrim in this world and cannot know full happiness there because his true patria is with God in heaven: “Indeed, a pilgrimage is the present life: and for he who pines for his homeland, the place of pilgrimage is a torment.”86 longe eas aspicientes, et salutantes, et confitentes quia peregrini et hospites sunt super terram.” Emphasis added. 83. “Audentes igitur semper, scientes quoniam dum sumus in corpore, peregrinamur a Domino.” Emphasis added. 84. “The Address to Diognetus,” The Apostolic Fathers: An American Translation, ed. and trans. Edgar J. Goodspeed (New York: Harper and Bros., 1950), 273–84, quotation on 278. Also quoted in Ladner, “Homo Viator,” 236. 85. Claussen, “Peregrinatio and Peregrini”, 45. 86. “Peregrinatio quippe est vita praesens: et qui suspirat ad patriam, ei tormentum est peregrinationis locus.” Registrum Epistularum, Libri VIII–XIV, Appendix, Corpus Christianorum, Series Latina 140A (Turnholt: Brepols, 1982), IX, 218 (p. 782); quoted in Ladner, “Homo Viator,” 236. In ancient Jewish mysticism, the mystic is “a pilgrim who phys-

44  Place and Literature While it is easy to perceive the real-life equivalent of the negative concept of exile (banishment from civilization, especially for medieval men and women, held connotations of a frightful, bestial existence), it is more difficult to imagine what a practical, real-life enactment of Augustine’s or Gregory’s idea of a Christian pilgrim’s life might look like. There is, indeed, scant information on how allegorical pilgrimage corresponds to the real-life practice of pilgrimage. It is perhaps telling that a sophisticated thinker such as Augustine could develop an entire doctrine of the city of God as a pilgrim87 and still hold that the actual practice of pilgrimage was “irrelevant and even dangerous.”88 One reason for Augustine’s disapproval is no doubt that real pilgrimage, despite all the allegorical or metaphysical interpretations it may engender, is deeply enmeshed in the places of this world. Certainly, the desire to express their detachment from earthly values was not the primary motivation of medieval men and women who made pilgrimages, although for many pilgrimage did represent a departure from the comforts of home and a hardship. Above all, they journeyed to Jerusalem (or Rome, Compostella, or Rocamadour) because they believed that those places had power and that physical contact with them would improve their lives. Augustine, however, suspected that actual pilgrimage fostered an attachment to the world, and so disfavored it. In this, according to Victor and Edith Turner, he is not alone: orthodoxy tends to be ambivalent toward pilgrimage because “there is something inveterately populist, anarchical, even anticlerical” about it.89 For the learned Augustine, there was no conically ascends towards and briefly sojourns in the heavens,” which are “conceived as a specific, physical place,” according to Pedaya, “Divinity as Place and Time,” 86. While I address here the concept of earthly place, others (especially scholars of Judaism) have studied the notion of heavenly place and its relationship with earthly reality. Particularly noteworthy is Pedaya’s outline of six models of the supernal place–earthly place relationship (95–99). 87. Augustine’s use of the city image confirms, if need be, that his concept of pilgrimage is firmly anchored in the idea of community and has nothing to do with the concept of exile as alienation. Tuan writes eloquently of the city-ideal in the antiquity and Middle Ages (Topophilia, chap. 11). According to him, the city was then considered an image of the cosmos, a perfect community in which humanity could flourish. 88. Runciman, History of the Crusades, 1:40. 89. Turner and Turner, Image and Pilgrimage, 32.

Place and Literature  45 tradiction between encouraging Christians to think of themselves as pilgrims in the world and urging them not to become real pilgrims. Augustine’s finer distinctions were not so easily or widely understood by the wider public. For most, the Augustinian concept of pilgrimage seemed to blend perfectly with the increasingly popular pilgrim journeys. Ladner describes how, from the sixth to eighth centuries, Irish and Anglo-Saxon monks chose peregrinatio (interpreted as homelessness) as one of their main penitential and ascetic practices and how, from the eleventh through the thirteenth, this concept increasingly took on wayfaring and missionary connotations.90 The holy hermit living in the desert or the woods is a familiar figure in the medieval imagination, as is the hermit-preacher. For most people, there was no doubt that pilgrimage represented a most holy act. Along these same lines, there was in early Christianity much debate over chiliasm (millennialism). If Jerusalem was to be the actual location of God’s future kingdom on Earth, it made perfect sense to make a pilgrimage in the hopes of being there for Christ’s Second Coming. But if biblical imagery of Jerusalem was simply an allegory of the celestial Jerusalem, to travel there seemed far less important. While scholars debated, most Christians made little distinction between familiar biblical images of the Holy Lands, the notion of a celestial Jerusalem, widespread anticipation of the Second Coming, and the desire to see and touch the places where Jesus had lived and died. Rather than contradicting one another, these associations and imagined visions of the Holy Lands coalesced into a very compelling reason to make the journey.

Pilgrimage and Place While the allegorical view undoubtedly provides insight into the nature of pilgrimage, it is, as we have seen, hardly sufficient to account for the phenomenon. This view provides a context to the religious person for conceiving of his or her life in this world by ad90. Ladner, “Homo Viator,” 245.

46  Place and Literature dressing some basic questions: Where do I come from? Where am I going? How do I think about being here? It reveals little, however, about why thousands of people left their homes and traveled for years at a time, sometimes under conditions of great hardship and physical danger, in order to visit certain places. While one cannot perhaps account fully for what Paul Zumthor calls “the avidity with which the sacred feeds on space,”91 an important aspect of pilgrimage has been surprisingly underemphasized: that of place. A pilgrim desires, more than anything else, to be in a particular place. In and through this place, he hopes, he will experience and receive something he cannot get anywhere else.

Pilgrimage as Practice  According to Wilken, the earliest Christian pilgrims to Jerusalem made their journey in the third century. One declared he was going there “for prayer and investigation of the places,” the other “for the sake of the holy places.”92 From the beginning, pilgrims traveled to Palestine with the goal of experiencing firsthand the places in which different biblical events occurred, not only the events of Christ’s life but also those recounted in the Old Testament.93 Saint Helena, Emperor Constantine’s mother and the legendary first pilgrim, mirrored the desires of most pilgrims when she sought to discover Christ’s burial place or touch for herself the wood of the True Cross. As D. French notes, “Christians gradually created a new sacred topography for Jerusalem and Palestine. They did this first by discovering the exact location of caves associated with Christ’s birth, passion, and ascension; second, by erecting basilicas over the newly defined Christian sites; and finally by encrusting these new shrines with layer upon layer of legitimizing ancient associations or legends.”94 91. “l’avidité avec laquelle ..... le sacré se nourrit d’espace,” Paul Zumthor, La Mesure du monde: Représentation de l’espace au moyen âge (Paris: Seuil, 1993), 188. 92. Wilken, Land Called Holy, 84. 93. Cf. ibid., 108–14. 94. French, “Journeys,” 52–53.

Place and Literature  47 Gradually, distinct ritual celebrations developed to complement the pilgrims’ visit to each specific place. For example, Egeria, a fourth-century Spanish woman and pilgrim to the Holy Lands, describes how, on Good Friday, the faithful went to a chapel on Golgotha, where they read accounts of the Passion.95 Stational liturgies, ancestor of the Stations of the Cross, became an increasingly important part of the pilgrim’s experience. The faithful would move from one biblical site to another, sometimes coordinating real place with “real” time (as during Holy Week), accomplishing in each place certain rites commemorating the event. The development of stational liturgies had two principal results. First, as believers integrated these sites into the expression of their fidelity to God, devotion, rite, and space became tightly intertwined. This had the effect of investing space with religious meaning and religious expression with spatial dimensions. In this way, place held an element both of the divine power that had seen fit to manifest itself there and of the human, devotional response to this manifestation. Secondly, as Jonathan Z. Smith points out, pilgrimage helps Christianity to shift from “an essentially private mode of worship to an overwhelmingly public and civic one of parade and procession.”96 As Smith notes, the rise of pilgrimage and the consequent transformation of Christianity from a private to a public religion coincides with the conversion to Christianity of the Roman Empire. The interpretation of Christ’s admonition to worship “in spirit and in truth” has undergone significant changes in response both to Christianity’s evolution into a state religion and its increasing need for the tangible, living reminder of history only place can provide. Another important motivation for many pilgrims was the belief that the place they were visiting possessed the power to heal infirmity, solve problems, grant wishes, or accomplish miracles. This notion 95. Egeria’s Travels, ed. and trans. J. D. Wilkinson (London: SPCK, 1971), 135–39. 96. Smith, To Take Place, 92. According to Smith, Christian liturgy in Jerusalem was originally conducted in single buildings—the archaic Christian “house churches”—but took on a stational and public character under the influence of pilgrimage practices.

48  Place and Literature of efficacious place held great potency for medieval men and women. The Turners refer to pilgrimage shrines as “the doctors of the poor.” 97 In an analysis of twelfth-century Rocamadour narratives, Robert W. Frank discusses the notion of “sacral power” associated with shrines.98 He describes many accounts of miracles attributed to a visit to Rocamadour, some of which even occurred along the route to or from the shrine or, in cases in which the person was too sick to travel, when he or she prayed in the direction of the shrine. Medieval pilgrims had utmost faith in the power of certain places to intervene effectively in their lives, bodies, and souls (as reflected, for example, in the belief that one’s sins could be forgiven through pilgrimage). For many, the journey of pilgrimage was not just symbolic, or even commemorative; it was truly efficacious. As Paul Zumthor puts it, “Man’s experience of the sacred cannot be dissociated from a topography that is quite real but where time pours itself into space, thus reproducing on earth the configuration of the heavenly world. The visible mixes with the invisible, to such a point that at any moment the Marvelous can happen.” 99 In the minds of medieval men and women, place had a very real power, the magnitude of which we imagine today with difficulty.

Jerusalem, Center of the World  A prominent notion in place and religious studies has been that of sacred center. According to Eliade, religious man needs to found his world by locating in it a fixed center.100 This center is revealed by hierophany, an opening among the planes of the divine world, the Earth, and the under97. Turner and Turner, Image and Pilgrimage, 194. 98. Robert Worth Frank Jr., “Pilgrimage and Sacral Power,” Journeys toward God: Pilgrimage and Crusade, ed. Barbara N. Sargent-Baur (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, Western Michigan University, 1992), 31–43. 99. “L’expérience que l’homme fait du sacré ne se dissocie pas d’une topographie bien réelle mais où s’investit le temps dans l’espace, reproduisant ainsi sur terre la configuration du monde céleste. Le visible s’y associe à l’invisible, au point qu’à tout moment peut s’y produire la Merveille,” Zumthor, La Mesure du monde, 56. 100. Eliade, Sacred and Profane, 22.

Place and Literature  49 world, and is often expressed through the image of an axis mundi, or cosmic pillar, which connects all three planes. This axis mundi, of which Jacob’s ladder and the Jerusalem Temple are images, provides the sacred center around which the world can be constituted in an orderly fashion. It is the center of the world, the navel of the Earth.101 According to Relph, sacred centers are not to be understood in a geometric sense: there can be as many sacred centers as there are sacred places. These centers perform the essential function of providing orientation in an otherwise disoriented world.102 If, as Clarence Glacken suggests, the Earth was considered by medieval man as “a vital link in his partnership with God,”103 then the notion of a sacred center must have held particular sway in the Middle Ages. Tuan perceives the image of a sacred center in medieval T-O, or wheel, maps: “The wheel maps of the Middle Ages expressed the beliefs and experiences of a theological culture that placed Christianity—and its topographic symbol, Jerusalem—at the center.”104 D. French expands upon the medieval notion of sacred center as seen in cartography and pilgrimage. She accentuates the complementary relationship that exists between the sensus literalis of Jerusalem’s holy places (for example, Mount Calvary as the place where Jesus was crucified), and their sensus allegoricus (in this case, the place of the salvation of the world). For Christian pilgrims to Jerusalem, these two meanings of a place existed simultaneously. As French notes, this Christian propensity to think allegorically about place developed “within a society that had a long-standing and carefully articulated set of ideas regarding the allegorical meaning of place”105—namely, the pagan and, especially, Jewish traditions. In this way, an elaborate, multilayered structure of meanings was gradually associated with Mount Calvary. 101. Ibid., 36–37. 102. Relph, Place and Placelessness, 15–16. 103. Clarence J. Glacken, Traces on the Rhodian Shore: Nature and Culture in Western Thought from Ancient Times to the End of the Eighteenth Century (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967), 294. 104. Tuan, Topophilia, 41. 105. French, “Journeys,” 51.

50  Place and Literature From Eliade’s perspective, Mount Calvary exemplifies the idea of a hierophany or breakthrough among the three cosmic planes of heaven, Earth, and underworld. French points out that already in apocalyptic Judaism and the Midrash (a compilation of commentaries on the Hebrew Bible), “Adam was made in Jerusalem and therefore at the Center of the World.”106 In Jewish thought, the temple represents the center. J. Z. Smith describes the complex mythology associated with the place of the temple: it is the source of the first light of Creation, the place from which dust was gathered to form Adam, the site of his grave, and that of Noah’s first sacrifice after the flood.107 Christianity transferred these traditions from the temple to Mount Calvary. It gave special attention to the link between Adam and Jesus as expressed through the site of Calvary. Christian iconography reflected and reinforced the idea that the Crucifixion took place at the exact spot of Adam’s burial by showing Adam’s skull at the foot of the cross in depictions of Golgotha.108 Christian pilgrims to Jerusalem visited many different shrines, but the focal point of all pilgrimages was the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Within the church was not only Christ’s burial place, but also the Church of Calvary, which itself stood on Mount Calvary. Mount Calvary in turn contained Golgotha, the place of Adam’s skull. “The levels of shrines in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher were like a threedimensional labyrinth with ever-smaller concentric circles leading the devout down to the sacred center, or the navel of the earth.”109 Many pilgrims were particularly drawn to a crevice in Mount Calvary, which was thought to have opened after the Crucifixion. It was for them, the precise omphalos, or umbilicus, of the world. In an example of what Wilken calls “tactile piety,” believers would attempt to place their hands and faces into the crevice or to leave something there. Another example of how medieval men and women perceived space can be seen in the art of sacred cartography. French traces 106. Ibid., 52. 108. Cf. French, “Journeys,” 57–59.

107. J. Z. Smith, To Take Place, 84. 109. Ibid., 66.

Place and Literature  51 the development of mapmaking from the second-century maps of Ptolemy, which emphasized accuracy and practicality, to the mappae mundi of the High and Late Middle Ages. Early medieval T-O maps showed the world encircled by an ocean and divided into three continents (Asia, Europe, and Africa), which were separated by a T-shaped body of water. Gradually, Jerusalem replaced the body of water in the exact center of the world (the upper bar of the T). There were also thematic maps, which illustrated the world through actual drawings of buildings and other real sites. In these too, Jerusalem was located at the center of the world. In one particular map, the Ebstorf World Map (ca. 1235), the world is drawn on top of an image of the crucified Christ, his head, feet, and hands representing the four cardinal points. As French points out, Christ’s body is integrated into, indeed becomes, the very substance of the world.110 Medieval mapmaking, as well as the Christian amplification of the significance of Mount Calvary, elucidate the medieval perception of place. We must not think that medieval Christians, overwhelmingly concerned with religious significance, simply did not care to represent the world realistically. At stake in these matters is not a debate over the relative importance of the allegorical or the real, but the very definition of what constitutes the real. French makes this point by referring to Eliade, who held that “profane” geography is abstract and nonessential: “Sacred cartography delineates the only real space, for it is concerned with the only indubitable reality—the sacred.”111 Within the medieval worldview, the allegorical meanings of space are so deeply intertwined with the real that any division of the two would be reductive. Real space inherently contains many layers of symbolic meaning. It is this mode of perception, so radically different from our own, that leads Carolly Erickson to refer to the “enchanted world” of medieval vision.112 It is difficult for us to ap110. Ibid., 64. 111. Ibid., 60. 112. “The multiform reality ..... may be likened to an enchanted world in which the boundaries of imagination and factuality are constantly shifting. At one time the observed physical limits of time and space may be acknowledged; at another they may be

52  Place and Literature preciate how deeply meaningful places were to men and women in the Middle Ages. Examining the phenomenon of pilgrimage, in particular to Jerusalem, represents perhaps one of our best means for attaining such an appreciation. For the Christian believer, the holy places of Palestine supported, literally underlay, the real, historical existence of Jesus of Nazareth. As the memory of Christ’s human life on Earth faded with time, it became increasingly vital for Christians to reaffirm that he was a real person who had lived in the world. Like all human beings, he had lived out his life in places, and these places, unlike him, were still present for people to see and touch. For not only does place contain a link to God; it endures beyond the scope of our finite lives. Place is a constant presence that anchors memory through the vicissitudes of human generations. In all the liturgies and devotions of pilgrims, in their need to touch the places touched by God, in their desire to leave something of themselves behind or to take a relic with them, in the stories of miraculous healing, there is one guiding purpose: to remember that God was a real person who lived in real place.

Crusade From the fourth century onwards, European Christians made the Jerusalem pilgrimage in considerable numbers. Their desire to experience the biblical Holy Lands derived in large part from the events they believed had taken place there: there, God had manifested himself throughout the centuries in his interactions with the Jewish people and, especially, in the life of Jesus. But Jerusalem was not the only ignored, or, from another point of view, transcended. Yet so constant and so automatic is this expansion and contraction of the field of perceived reality that it goes on unnoted and unreconciled by medieval writers. It belongs to those tacit norms in all cultures which ..... are rarely explicitly acknowledged. Of course, the fact that medieval men and women shared this flexibility of perception does not mean that they were unable to distinguish between the imagined and the tangible. Nor does it imply that they were puzzled or deluded about the difference between material and immaterial existence ..... [they] used other means than sense perception to authenticate reality.” Carolly Erickson, The Medieval Vision: Essays in History and Perception (New York: Oxford University Press, 1976), 5–6.

Place and Literature  53 destination for medieval pilgrims. Rome, the site of numerous relics and seat of the Church, was a popular pilgrimage site. Two other immensely popular pilgrimages, associated by Runciman with the idea of a penitentiary indulgence, were Saint James at Compostella in Spain and Saint Michael at Monte Gargano in Italy. Both St. Michael and St. James are principally warrior-saints. As Carl Erdmann notes, St. Michael was originally identified primarily as an archangel but then increasingly as a warrior. According to legend, he appeared at Mt. Gargano as a leader in battle, slaying the enemy with lightning from heaven.113 Likewise, St. James, patron of the knighthood of Christian Spain, was known for having appeared on horseback, carrying a white flag to lead the Christians to victory in the legendary battle with the Moors at Clavijo.114 The fact that places associated with two warrior-saints attracted such devotion is significant. It reveals that medieval people saw God as taking a great interest in battles and warfare and manifesting Himself there through the intermediary of His saints. The battles that are often fought over places give tangential expression to place’s great value (as we will see in the Song of Roland). In this sense, the Monte Gargano and Compostella pilgrimages illustrate another facet of the medieval view of place: namely, that to wage battle for the restoration of a place represented a holy deed, one that merited the intervention of God’s greatest saints.115 Until the time of the reform popes, the Church did not necessarily uphold this correlation of holiness and warfare, as Erdmann explains in his study of the development of the Church’s doctrine of holy war. For the populace, however, there was nothing strange about this correlation: places and the people in them were frequently vulnerable and needed to be defended. If a place contains a con113. Carl Erdmann, The Origin of the Idea of Crusade (1935; Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1977), 20–21. 114. Ibid., 274. 115. Likewise, in Plato’s Timaeus, the godliness of the first Athenians is manifest in their excellence as warriors. Dante’s Paradiso portrays warrior-saints in paradise, while Charlemagne was canonized in the late twelfth century.

54  Place and Literature nection to God, then fighting for such a place must seem like fighting for God. For no place would this seem more true to Western Europeans than for the Judeo-Christian Holy Lands. In this brief discussion of the Crusades, I will consider only the time leading up to the First Crusade to the Holy Lands (1098), for I believe that this time is our best witness to the initial motivations and forces behind the enterprise. A great deal has been written about the First Crusade, and in the following section I will offer a brief summary of the ideas most relevant to this volume. In order to understand the nature of the forces that led to the immense success of Pope Urban II’s call to crusade in 1095, it is imperative to realize that crusade has its roots in the phenomenon of pilgrimage. Victor and Edith Turner assert that crusade arises from the intensified attachment to one’s own religion effected by pilgrimage (an attachment which is often in fanatical opposition to other religions).116 In Histoire de Saint Louis, Joinville describes how he donned a pilgrim’s garb upon departing for the Crusades: the abbot of Cheminon gave him “my purse and my pilgrim’s staff ” (“m’escharpe et mon bourdon”), and Joinville left his castle “on foot, shoeless and in a hairshirt” (“à pié, deschaus et en langes”).117 Many scholars have underlined the extent to which crusaders and pilgrims shared common motivations, practices, and liturgies. As J. G. Davies writes, “The Crusades can of course be considered from the perspective of political history or military history, as well as that of social and/or economic history; but if their true nature is not to be obscured they also have to be studied in relation to the medieval understanding of pilgrimage.”118 Like pilgrims, the first crusaders were inspired by a desire to see the Holy Lands and thereby to obtain the remission of their sins. Urban II most likely promised a plenary indulgence for the Jeru116. Turner and Turner, Image and Pilgrimage, 9. 117. Jean de Joinville, “Histoire de Saint Louis,” in Historiens et Chroniqueurs du moyen âge (Paris: Gallimard, 1952), 195–366 (quotation on 227). 118. J. G. Davies, “Pilgrimage and Crusade Literature,” in Journeys toward God: Pilgrimage and Crusade, ed. Barbara N. Sargent-Baur (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, Western Michigan University, 1992), 1–30, quotation on 13.

Place and Literature  55 salem pilgrimage at the Council of Clermont, or soon thereafter. Nevertheless, however similar their motives, many aspects of the Crusades differed radically from those of pilgrimage. Crusaders carried arms and traveled with the objective not only of seeing the holy places but of using force to obtain temporal power over them. The mere experience of the holy places, it would seem, had become insufficient. Suddenly, large numbers of European Christians deemed the establishment of a Christian kingdom in Jerusalem an objective worth killing and dying for. To what can we attribute this radical change in the pilgrim’s project? By all accounts, the outpouring of support for Urban II’s call, the ostensible goal of which was to succor eastern Christians, far surpassed anyone’s expectations. Many different factors converged to create this surprising reaction: socio-economic, eschatological, historical, and political.119 But if we examine the crusade phenomenon from the perspective of place, two groups of factors stand out. First, the Crusades had as their focal point the city of Jerusalem. The tremendous appeal of this sacred center for medieval men and women cannot be overstated. Secondly, beginning in the seventh century, the rise of Islam in the Middle East (and later in Africa and Spain) gradually had a significant impact on Western Europe. The presence of so different a faith and its rapid advance through southern Europe caused a radical change in worldview, one in which the values associated with place played an essential role. In the eighth century, the Moors reached central France before they were repelled by Charles the Hammer; they continued to thrive in Spain into the eleventh century and beyond, up to the Reconquest of Grenada in 1492.120 119. I refer the reader to the following studies of these factors: Erdmann, Origin of the Idea of Crusade; and Runciman, History of the Crusades; as well as Étienne Delaruelle, L’Idée de croisade au Moyen Âge (1941–54; Torino: Bottega d’Erasmo, 1980); Paul Alphandéry and Alphonse Dupront, La Chrétienté et l’idée de croisade (1954; Paris: Albin Michel, 1995); Hans Eberhard Mayer, The Crusades (1965), trans. John Gillingham (New York: Oxford University Press, 1972); and Zumthor, La Mesure du monde, 184–200. 120. One sees readily the relevance of this historical situation to La Chanson de Roland’s battle against the Muslim presence in Spain, led by Charles the Hammer’s grandson, Charlemagne.

56  Place and Literature To understand the impact of Islam on Europe, we must try to imagine how the nearby presence of the Moors must have felt to a Europe fairly secure in its identification with Christianity. Even when, as was often the case, the Muslim rulers tolerated the Christian faith, their dominion over European lands threatened the West’s sense of identity. Runciman describes the situation thus: The western Christian ..... was proud to be a Christian, and, as he thought, the heir of Rome; yet he was uneasily aware that in most respects Moslem civilization was higher than his own. Moslem power dominated the Western Mediterranean from Catalonia to Tunis. Moslem pirates preyed upon his shipping. Rome had been sacked by the Moslems. They had built robber castles in Italy and in Provence. From their strongholds in Spain it seemed that they might again emerge to cross the frontiers and pour over the Pyrenees into France. Western Christendom had no organization that could have met such an attack.121

In 1009, Muslims destroyed the Church of the Holy Sepulcher and undertook persecutions of Christian pilgrims.122 According to Erdmann, Pope Sergius IV seriously envisioned a plan for crusade at this time.123 As Runciman describes, the Caliph al-Mansur, or Almanzor, repeatedly attacked the kingdom of Leon, the leading Christian power in Spain. In 981, he took Zamora, in 996, Leon, and in 997, he twice burned the city of St. James at Compostella. The Great Sancho III, king of Navarre, launched the counterattack. With the support of the Cluniacs, ever-diligent defenders of pilgrims and pilgrimage, Sancho and his successors attracted the support of the Normans and the Papacy. In 1063, the Spanish counterattack against the Muslims acquired the status of a holy war as Pope Alexander II promised an indulgence for all who took up arms to defend Christendom in Spain.124 121. Runciman, History of the Crusades, 1:88. 122. See Alphandéry and Dupront, La Chrétienté et l’idée de croisade, 19. 123. Erdmann, Origin of the Idea of Crusade, 114. 124. Runciman, History of the Crusades, 1:89–91.

Place and Literature  57 While western powers fought the Muslims in Spain, Byzantium was attempting to repel them, as well as other groups, from its own frontiers. In 1071, just twenty-five years before the Council of Clermont, it lost the decisive battle of Manzikert to the Turks. The Emperor Alexis successfully defended the Danube Valley against the Turks but had more difficulty with the Seldjuk Turks in Asia Minor. As Alexis tried to rebuild his army from the disaster at Manzikert, he looked to the West for mercenaries. At the same time, both he and Pope Urban II were striving to ease the tense relations between the eastern and western branches of the church. In 1095, Byzantine envoys attended Urban II’s council at Piacenza. H. E. Mayer asserts that the Emperor Alexis, guided by a desire to obtain western military help for Byzantium, made the situation in the East look more dire than it in fact was. Moreover, Mayer claims, Alexis “deliberately emphasized the idea of help for Jerusalem because he anticipated that this would prove an effective propaganda slogan in Europe.”125 Neither Alexis at Piacenza, nor Urban II six months later at Clermont, realized how forceful this “propaganda slogan” would prove to be. Such were the events leading up to the Crusades. As this cursory summary of events reveals, Christendom, both in the East and the West, was facing a real threat to its hegemony in the late eleventh century and had lived with this threat for some time. In Spain, in the south of Italy, in the Middle East, and in Eastern Europe, it was confronted with the encroaching presence of Islam—in modern parlance, we might say the Other. This threatening advance involved, above all, place—who could defend it, who could dominate it. Place plays a crucial, mediating role in a people’s perception of its relationship to transcendence.126 Where a people’s ties to place are 125. Mayer, Crusades, 8. 126. Tuan ties this linking function of place to the tradition of razing a city once it is conquered: “Conquerors did not raze a city to the ground simply out of wanton fury; in such destruction they appropriated a people’s gods by rendering them homeless, and in appropriating the gods the conquerors acquired a civilization” (Space and Place, 150–51). In other words, an intact place leaves an intact link to God. In order to take God away from a people, one must take from them their place.

58  Place and Literature threatened, their link to God is endangered. That an onslaught of threats to Christendom’s place coincided with the powerful yearning of Europeans of all social classes to affirm Christianity’s roots in Jerusalem reflects perhaps humanity’s deep need for the secure roots and the transcendent connections provided by place. Other factors also led to the crusading idea and its success. According to Mayer, the knightly class was affected by the difficult social and economic conditions of the time, and came to see crusade as a beneficial solution. Citing Herlihy,127 Mayer describes the agrarian crisis and wave of famines that swept through France and Italy in the tenth and eleventh centuries. In response to the needs of a rising population, the Carolingian custom of splitting lands equally among heirs was gradually eliminated in favor of the system of primogeniture. According to this system, the eldest son received the entire inheritance and younger sons were forced to find another means of subsistence, often entering the Church or the knighthood. Moreover, many younger sons were not allowed to marry. Because Urban II had promised the crusaders ownership of any lands conquered, crusade offered to many men a chance to improve considerably their material situation.128 Along the same lines, Alphandéry and Dupront cite the prevalence of epidemics and natural disasters during the eleventh century. These incited the population to seek out a better place in Jerusalem, believed by many to be the land of milk and honey described in the Bible.129 127. D. Herlihy, “The Agrarian Revolution in Southern France and Italy,” Speculum 33 (1958): 23–41. 128. See Mayer, Crusades, 22-25. In a thought-provoking insight, Ladner, “Homo Viator” (246) suggests a strong connection between pilgrimage and the development of chivalry: “It is very interesting to see how feudalism, which originally was rather localized and static, fell under the dynamic spell of the peregrinatio idea, without which the chivalric ideals of the High Middle Ages could hardly have developed. This happened in two stages ..... First and most obviously, chivalry coalesced with the mediaeval pilgrimage movement in the great pilgrimage in arms aimed at recapturing Jerusalem ..... Second, in conjunction with the rapid slackening of the crusading spirit, there arose in the literature of the second half of the twelfth century that fateful image of the knight-errant who must seek out the hostile forces of the world and find his own self in a ceaseless course of aventure.” 129. Alphandéry and Dupront, La Chrétienté et l’idée de croisade, 46–47.

Place and Literature  59 This last point is related to one final contributing factor to the development of the Crusades: the eschatological connotations of Jerusalem. Because of the epidemics, floods, and droughts plaguing the West, many people, especially the poor who were most affected by the dire conditions, believed that the end of the world was approaching. Alphandéry and Dupront underline the instrumental role played by the preaching of hermits such as Robert d’Arbrissel and Peter the Hermit in inciting an unparalleled religious fervor in the poor, as well as the commonly held notion that the final battle waged by the Antichrist would take place in Jerusalem. As I have pointed out, the distinction between the earthly city of Jerusalem and the celestial Jerusalem evoked in biblical images was not always clear to people at the time. To be ensured a place among the chosen at the end of time, it seemed well-advised to be in Jerusalem when the triumphant Christ returned. Runciman also expresses this idea: “Medieval man was convinced that the Second Coming was at hand ..... The Church taught that sin could be expiated by pilgrimage and prophecies declared that the Holy Land must be recovered for the faith before Christ could come again. Further, to ignorant minds the distinction between Jerusalem and the New Jerusalem was not very clearly defined.”130 If large numbers of people, encouraged by the pope as well as influential preachers such as Peter the Hermit, believed that the end was at hand, it is not surprising that the pilgrimage indulgence held widespread appeal. Already in 1089, Urban II had offered an indulgence to Christians who would help restore the church at Tarragona, in Spain, and the idea of an indulgence associated with the Jerusalem pilgrimage would have been familiar to believers. Combined with the ambient eschatological fervor, the indulgence gained particular power; as Mayer states, it “put all the others [motives] in the shade.”131 130. Runciman, History of the Crusades, 1:115. 131. Mayer, Crusades, 25.

60  Place and Literature The medieval practice of pilgrimage reveals something of what place may have meant for medieval men and women. Medieval pilgrims underwent long journeys, at great cost and often considerable hardship, in order to visit a special place that, they believed, enjoyed a favored link to transcendence. Pilgrimage sites served as sacred centers with a power not just symbolic but real and efficacious. These places could cure blindness, forgive sins, or bring rain to a dry region. Jerusalem and the Holy Lands, as well as other medieval pilgrimage sites such as Compostella, Rome, and Rocamadour, derived their sacred powers from supposed actual historical contact with God. Of course, Jerusalem and the Holy Lands were most sacred for the Judeo-Christian tradition. This importance was proportionate to the frequency with which God chose these places to manifest himself over and over throughout history, according to Judeo-Christian belief. It is little wonder, then, that medieval Christians believed it vitally important not only to experience but to ensure their hold on the Holy Lands. In addition to these compelling associations of the Holy Lands, a palpable feeling of danger also motivated western Christians to the First Crusade. The looming danger of Muslim invasion threatened the West’s strong identification with Christianity. Western Christendom sought fiercely to reaffirm itself by looking to the Holy Lands with an eye to restitution. If Jerusalem had belonged by right to the Jews—and this must have seemed evident to medieval Christians—then it should now pass to Christendom, Judaism’s rightful successor. The justice of the Christian claim to Jerusalem, and the injustice of the Muslim presence there, seemed beyond dispute and even divinely ordained (explaining the sometimes incredible lack of preparation and planning on the part of later crusading armies). If God willed Jerusalem for the Christians, as they believed, then their victory could not be doubted. In this way, Jerusalem became the focal point of Christian efforts to affirm its identity and burgeoning strength. The crusaders believed firmly that the best thing they

Place and Literature  61 could do, for their souls and for God, was win Jerusalem for Christ. This belief, which the immense response to Urban II’s call to crusade at the Council of Clermont shows to have been widely held, reveals some of the intensity of place’s value in the Middle Ages. Many unusual and compelling factors came together at the end of the eleventh century to create such a receptive environment for Urban II’s call. Historical, political, social, economic, religious, and eschatological undercurrents combined with a fervent belief in the efficaciousness of place to purify the sinner, engendering what one historian called “the quasi spontaneous outpouring” of crusade.132 More than anything else, it was the extreme potency of the name and place Jerusalem that transformed a call meant to appeal mainly to knights into one that moved thousands of people from many different backgrounds. By most accounts, Jerusalem was an afterthought for both the Emperor Alexis and Urban II: their primary goal was to assist the eastern Church and thereby solidify the ties between East and West. And perhaps, buoyed by increasing prosperity, the success of the Spanish Reconquest, and a mounting ideal of restoration of Christian lands conquered by Islam, Urban II came to believe that western Christendom, truncated without Jerusalem, was ready to go on the offensive. One thing is certain: once the word “Jerusalem” was spoken, it took on a life of its own in the imaginations of thousands. Mayer writes, “Even the mere sound of the name Jerusalem must have had a glittering and magical splendour for the men of the eleventh century which we are no longer capable of feeling.”133 The allure of the Crusades, I believe, finds its primary explanation in the potent meanings of Jerusalem as place. It is in this context, then, that the Life of Saint Alexis, the Song of Roland, and the first-known written versions of the legend of Tristan 132. “le jaillissement quasi spontané,” Alphandéry and Dupront, La Chrétienté et l’idée de croisade, 9. 133. Mayer, Crusades, 11.

62  Place and Literature and Iseut make their appearance. The former two works were written around the time of the First Crusade, while in the mid-twelfth century when the latter appeared, the Christian kingdom of Jerusalem was still intact (it would fall in 1187). As we will see in chapters 1 and 2, both the Life of Saint Alexis and the Song of Roland participate in what one could call a medieval worldview of place: place as allegorically both positive and negative (as in the biblical tradition); place as historically powerful and efficacious (as evidenced in pilgrimage and crusade). In these poems, while the protagonists may demonstrate detachment from place in their actions, this detachment is unquestionably subsumed into an overarching faith in place’s profound value and consequence.

1  The Old French

Vie de saint Alexis

Having now examined some of the contextual questions that underlie a study of spatiality and place in medieval literature, I would like to begin with an examination of the Life of Saint Alexis (ca. 1080). As we will see, spatiality and place often function interdependently in a literary work. They represent different facets of space—distinct ways of writing and thinking about what is in reality an irreducible whole: the work. They are meant to help us tease out the work’s complexities in order to better distinguish the multiple ways in which space functions within a literary text. The notions of spatiality and place are intellectual constructs, not realities. The only true reality is the text (often itself a multiplicity of manuscript forms, rather than a unified entity). These notions are tools to help us understand the work. While no critical study of the Life of Saint Alexis has focused on space and place in the manner I envision, several have approached a topic crucial to an appreciation of place in the poem: the role of Alexis’s family. Early studies by Emil Winkler, Leo Spitzer, Ernest Robert Curtius, and Baudouin de Gaiffier examine, among other matters, the role of Alexis’s bride, offering divergent analyses of the repercussions of the saint’s departure on their wed-

63

64  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis ding night.1 Particularly compelling in this field are Karl D. Uitti’s discussion of the bride’s importance and Patrick R. Vincent’s compassionate study of the poem’s portrayal of Alexis’s family.2 Other studies have concentrated on the question of lignage and its relation to sainthood: Nancy Vine Durling, and James T. Chiampi.3 Alexis’s family—his parents and bride—help to create a sense of place in the poem, not only through their own relationship to Rome, but also through what they, and their connection to Rome, mean to Alexis. Another important element of Alexis’s relationship to place appears in the purposeful grounding of his saintly vocation in a specific context: Rome. Several scholars have discussed Alexis’s sainthood and its significance for the Roman community, most notably Uitti, Vincent, Anna Granville Hatcher, and Donald L. Maddox.4 I owe much to these studies for my own exploration of the importance of Rome in the poem. However, while family, sainthood, and Rome have all been touched upon by scholarship, the complex interplay of these notions, and their foundations in the value of place, have not yet been fully discussed. The spatial structuring of the St. Alexis has received even less attention. 1. Cf. Emil Winkler, “Von der Kunst des Alexiusdichters,” Zeitschrift für Romanische Philologie 47 (1927): 588–97; Leo Spitzer, “Erhellung des Polyeucte durch das Alexiuslied,” Archivum Romanicum 16 (1932): 473–500; Ernst Robert Curtius, “Zur Interpretation des Alexiusliedes,” Zeitschrift für Romanische Philologie 55 (1936): 113–37; Baudouin De Gaiffier, “Intactam sponsam relinquens. À propos de la Vie de saint Alexis,” Analecta Bollandiana 65 (1947): 157–95. 2. Cf. Karl D. Uitti, “The Old French Vie de saint Alexis: Paradigm, Legend, Meaning,” Romance Philology 20 (1967): 263–95; Patrick R. Vincent, “The Dramatic Aspect of the Old French Vie de saint Alexis,” Studies in Philology, 60 (1963): 525–41. 3. Cf. Nancy Vine Durling, “Permutations in Genealogy: A Study of Kinship Structure in Old French Hagiography, ‘Chansons de geste’ and Romance” (unpublished PhD diss., Princeton University, 1981), and Vine Durling, “Hagiography and Lineage: The Example of the Old French Vie de saint Alexis,” Romance Philology 40 (1987): 451–69; James T. Chiampi, “The Vie de saint Alexis and the Weight of Paternity,” Romance Quarterly 34 (1987): 131–40. 4. Uitti, “Old French Vie”; Vincent, “Dramatic Aspect”; Anna Granville Hatcher, “The Old French Poem St. Alexis: A Mathematical Demonstration,” Traditio 8 (1952): 111– 58; Donald L. Maddox, “Pilgrimage Narrative and Meaning in Manuscripts L and A of the Vie de saint Alexis,” Romance Philology 27 (1973): 143–57.

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  65 In the first section of this chapter, I will develop a study of spatiality in the St. Alexis. Issues to be examined here are the narrative insertion of the poem in the eleventh-century context of the poet and his audience; the initial presentation of Rome, Alexis’s home city; the portrayal of Alexis’s self-imposed journeys of exile; and the significance of his involuntary return to Rome. In the second section, I will proceed to a study of place in the poem. In this hagiographical tale, place means something different to each character: the narrator and his audience; Alexis’s father, mother, and bride; the people of Rome; and Alexis himself. Indeed, much of the poem’s tension and complexity stem from these characters’ dissonant experiences of place. In examining Alexis’s relationship to space, in particular, I will consider how it may be characteristic of a saint.

The Spatial Framework Time, Space, Family, and the Holy Calling The Life of Saint Alexis begins by evoking the goodness of the world in the tens ancïenur—the time of the ancients—thus placing initial emphasis not on space, but on time.5 As Vine Durling notes, the use of the “good old days” exemplum in a hagiographical tale could not be more conventional. More unusual, however, is its unconventional placement in the incipit.6 If we consider that a poem’s incipit sets up a foundation—a sort of poetic place—for the poem that will follow, then this evocation of the tens ancïenur, and its jux5. For my study of the Vie de saint Alexis, I will refer to Christopher Storey’s edition of the Hildesheim manuscript (L): La Vie de saint Alexis, Textes Littéraires Français 148 (Geneva: Droz, 1968). All English translations are mine. I have made them as literal and as syntactically close to the Old French as possible. I refer also to Carl J. Odenkirchen’s English translation, The Life of St. Alexius in the Old French Version of the Hildesheim Manuscript (Brookline, Mass.: Classical Folia Editions, 1978). 6. Cf. Vine Durling, “Hagiography and Lineage,” 463–64. For a development of this “world upside-down” topos, Vine Durling cites Ernst Robert Curtius, European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages (1948), trans. Willard R. Trask, Bollingen Series 36 (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1983), 94-98. Cf. also Hatcher, “Old French Poem St. Alexis.”

66  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis taposition in the third verse with or (“now”), tells us that time is crucial in “placing” the poem. It is helpful, in this context, to compare the beginning of the Life with that of the Song of Roland. In Roland’s first lines, the narrator immediately provides a temporal and spatial framework for the action, evoking the seven years Charlemagne and his Frankish troops have spent warring in Spain, the resistance of Saragossa, and the Franks’ desire to return home to France. While Roland begins with the Franks situated between two spaces (Spain and France), the Life establishes a vacillation between two time frames, past and present. This vacillation provides the impetus for the story that follows. What does it mean that the place of the Life as poem is in fact a time, a now? In the third stanza, a spatial context is given to the story about to be told: the city of Rome. This initial juxtaposition between time and space reveals that, in fact, the Life does not only tell the story of Alexis. In verse 12, the narrator evokes “nostra anceisur” (“our ancestors”), and thus signals the presence of a we—an audience-community for which, and through which, the story derives its significance. As a genre, the saint’s life participates in the celebration of a community: not only its belonging to place, but also its memory and its past. In the Life, the space of Rome and the story of its saint are circumscribed within a temporal tension that stretches from the ancient times of the Old Dispensation—the times of Noah, Abraham, and David—through the fresh times of the New Dispensation, down to or, the “now” of the audience-community. As established by the incipit, the tale of Saint Alexis lies somewhere between the righteousness of the ancient times and the decadence of the present. It thus serves a mediating function that allows the present-day community to renew its faith by perceiving its connection to its earliest forefathers.7 7. In this way, therefore, it is not only the poem’s conclusion that identifies Alexis as an intercessor-saint, as has often been emphasized. From the beginning, his story performs an intercessory function, not so much between God and man as between a community and its past.

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  67 It is useful to recall the stories of these three biblical figures, for the choice to evoke specifically Noah, Abraham, and David foreshadows two significant aspects of Alexis’s sainthood, namely, his exile and the role played by his family. Noah, an eighthgeneration direct descendent of Adam, is destined by God to regenerate the human race after the flood. The Book of Genesis tells of Noah’s flight from his earthly home in the ark; through the flood, the entire space of the Earth is to be cleansed. God instructs Noah thus: “For behold, I will bring a flood of waters upon the earth, to destroy all flesh in which is the breath of life from under heaven; everything that is on the earth shall die. But I will establish my covenant with you; and you shall come into the ark, you, your sons, your wife, and your sons’ wives with you” (Genesis 6:17–18).8 God calls upon Noah to leave his home, and his family is called upon to accompany him in his exile. Likewise, Abram is told to leave home with his family: “Now the Lord said to Abram, ‘Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. And I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing’ ” (Genesis 12:1–2).9 In order to begin a new nation, Abram must leave the space of his ancestors and extended family; however, like Noah, his immediate family participates in his calling. “So Abram went, as the Lord had told him; and Lot went with him ..... And Abram took Sarai his wife, and Lot his brother’s son, and all their possessions which they had gathered, and the persons that they had gotten in Haran; and they set forth to go to the land of Canaan” (Genesis 12:4–5).10 Neither Noah nor Abra8. “Ecce ego adducam aquas diluvii super terram, ut interficiam omnem carnem, in qua spiritus vitae est subter caelum: universa, quae in terra sunt, consumentur. Ponamque foedus meum tecum; et ingredieris arcam tu et filii tui, uxor tua, et uxores filiorum tuorum tecum.” 9. “Dixit autem Dominus ad Abram: ‘Egredere de terra tua, et de cognatione tua, et de domo patris tui, et veni in terram quam monstrabo tibi. Faciamque te in gentem magnam, et benedicam tibi, et magnificabo nomen tuum, erisque benedictus.’’’ 10. “Egressus est itaque Abram sicut praeceperat ei Dominus, et ivit cum eo Lot .....

68  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis ham is a solitary figure; God includes their families in his plan for what each of them must accomplish. David is set apart from Noah and Abraham both chronologically (he is fourteen generations removed from Abraham) and poetically (in the Life, he appears in a separate verse and is the only figure to receive a description, as “David, qui Deus par amat tant” [v. 7]). In addition, David features prominently in the St. Albans Psalter, which contains MS L. In fact, both David and Alexis are depicted in the Psalter’s manuscript drawings with the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove speaking into their ear.11 This suggests a parallel between the two with regard to inspiration, especially writerly (David as author of the Psalms and Alexis of his letter, and by extension the Life). The distinguishing feature of David’s story is not so much a spatial displacement, although, as a warrior for Israel, he does move from place to place. David, a brave warrior, gifted harpist, poet of the Psalms, and passionate lover, is above all remembered as one dearly loved by God and chosen by him, not to leave his home like Noah and Abraham but to create a new home for the people of Israel in the form of a temple, and even for God himself. But that same night the word of the Lord came to Nathan, “Go and tell my servant David, ‘Thus says the Lord: Would you build me a house to dwell in?’ ..... Now therefore thus you shall say to my servant David, ‘Thus says the Lord of hosts, I took you from the pasture, from following the sheep, that you should be prince over my people Israel ..... And I will appoint a place for my people Israel, and will plant them, that they may dwell in their own place, and be disturbed no more.’ ” 12 (2 Samuel 7:4–5, 7:8, 7:10) Tulitque Sarai uxorem suam, et Lot filium fratris sui, universamque substantiam quam possederant, et animas quas fecerant in Harran: et egressi sunt ut irent in terram Chanaan.” 11. Cf. Laura Kendrick, “1123? Manuscripts,” in A New History of French Literature, ed. Denis Hollier (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1989), 23–30, quotation on 26–27. 12. “Factum est autem in illa nocte: et ecce sermo Domini ad Nathan, dicens: ‘Vade

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  69 As Nancy Vine Durling suggests, “Noah, Abraham, and David are all members of the sacred line that engendered Christ; the framework used by the clerk is therefore a genealogical one.” She later extends this genealogical construct to include the poem’s audience.13 In addition to the genealogical resonance they provide, these characters’ respective callings relate to the notions of space and place. For Noah, Abraham, and David are not just genealogical ancestors of Christ; they are also precursors of the saint and holy men called upon by God to seek out and establish a place for God’s people. Moreover, the three men’s stories express a certain progression in the relationship between God’s people and the Earth. Noah is called upon to vacate the Earth by taking his family, and a male and female of each animal species, into the ark, until God has cleansed the Earth through the flood. Abraham is asked to leave his home and travel to a Promised Land with his wife and nephew. David must build a home for God and his people. With Noah, the Earth is vacated and rejected by God’s people. With Abraham, they experience spatial displacement. They then progress to their most glorious moment, the establishment of Jerusalem as Hebrew homeland by David. The movements described by La Vie de saint Alexis share similar motifs: Alexis first resolutely leaves his home and family behind, then comes back in an unrecognized state that is still something of an exile, and is finally fully recognized and “brought home” by his people. Alexis’s life, in its reworking of the notions of exile and homecoming, is very much an echo of the lives of these forefathers of the Church. Furthermore, because Alexis’s trajectory includes a departure from home and family, a sojourn in the Middle East, and a return, it resembles spatially the pilgrimages that were so widespread at the time of the Life’s composition. et loquere ad servum meum David: “Haec dicit Dominus: Numquid tu aedificabis mihi domum ad habitandum?” ..... Et nunc haec dices servo meo David: “Haec dicit Dominus exercituum: Ego tuli te de pascuis sequentem greges, ut esses dux super populum meum Israel ..... Et ponam locum populo meo Israel, et plantabo eum, et habitabit sub eo, et non turbabitur amplius.”’ ” 13. Vine Durling, “Hagiography and Lineage,” 464.

70  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis At the most basic level, the three biblical figures who are mentioned in the prologue share with Alexis a calling that expresses itself spatially. For each of them, becoming a man of God means that they relate to the space of the Earth in a special way; namely, they must found a place and express, through space, a people’s ties to God. In addition, it is also helpful to consider, as I have suggested above, the role played by each man’s family in their holy calling. Noah’s and Abraham’s families, especially, participate in the exile necessary to the realization of their vocation. Alexis’s family plays a prominent role in the poem, but much of the narrative revolves around the fact that they are not included in the saint’s “vocational” displacement. Indeed, this apparent exclusion causes them much distress. The notion of familial participation associated with Noah and Abraham, which juxtaposes their families’ experience with that of Alexis’s family, implies two possible meanings. It may be that this association is meant to contrast the two experiences, highlighting thereby the exclusion of Alexis’s family from his saintly calling. Or perhaps it is intended to intimate subtly that Alexis’s family is in fact more deeply involved in his vocation than it may appear at first glance. Like Vincent, I prefer the second possibility. Noah’s and Abraham’s families accompany them on their journeys to accomplish God’s will. In both cases, they are an integral part of the new world to be established (without Noah’s family, the Earth could not be repopulated; without Sarah, Isaac could not have been born). Likewise, as I will later discuss in greater depth, Alexis’s father, mother, and bride, through their reaction to the saint’s behavior, contribute essentially to Alexis’s story. If we neglect to acknowledge their participation in Alexis’s sainthood, we miss a critical element of the poem’s meaning and purpose. The stories of Noah, Abraham, and David were quite familiar to a medieval audience. It is perfectly conceivable that the simple invocation of their names would call to mind points of similarity and contrast between their stories and the tale to follow. The notions of exile and the family’s role, being cru-

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  71 cial to Alexis’s story, would quite possibly be foremost among these associations.

Rome and the Rooting of a Saintly Calling As we have seen, the Life’s exordium is mainly concerned with establishing a temporal framework into which Alexis’s story is inserted. This framework consists of both continuity and disjunction. Between ancient times and the present, there lies a fundamental division. This division is remedied, however, by Alexis himself, whose life sustains continuity—between ancient times and his own, and forward from then to the time of the poem’s audience-community. The Life’s spatial context is first presented not in relation to Alexis himself but in relation to his father (“Si fut un sire de Rome la citét” [“There was a lord of Rome the city” (v. 13)]). This prominent position of the saint’s father and his immediate identification with the space of Rome serve as early indications of how space and place will be delineated throughout the poem: through people. Because the poem’s characters—Alexis’s family in particular—are so crucial to the Life’s development of the place of Rome, I will examine their characterization in some detail. Before meeting Alexis, we meet Eufemian, whose name stands at the head of the fourth stanza and who is repeatedly identified as a member of the Roman nobility. The narrator indicates clearly that this information about Eufemian is relevant to what follows: he tells us this, he says, because he wants to speak about Eufemian’s son (v. 15). What, then, does this introduction to Eufemian tell us? First of all, Eufemian has strong roots in the city of Rome. He is a powerful and noble count of the city who is loved by the emperor above all his peers (vv. 17–18). He takes as wife a wealthy and honorable woman, “des melz gentils de tuta la cuntretha” (“of the most noble of all the country” [v. 20]). Thus Alexis’s mother, who is not named, is also described in relation to her country, though not explicitly to Rome. The strong ties of belonging that bind Alexis’s

72  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis parents to Rome are above all associated with the values of wealth, power, nobility, loyalty to the emperor, and honor. From the beginning, Rome is not just the space where Alexis is born. It represents a system of belonging that provides him with a well-defined identity. Space does not long retain its neutral qualities but instead rapidly takes on meaningful associations. As I have mentioned, Eufemian is presented as one much loved by the emperor. The use of the verb “amat” in verse 18 (“Sur tuz ses pers l’amat li emperere”) calls to mind the description of David in verse 7: “David, qui Deus par amat tant” (v. 7). The similarity between theses two lines encourages a comparison of these two men. In contrast with David, Eufemian is defined by earthly love (for it is an emperor, not God, who loves Eufemian). The lines also set up one of the poem’s many correspondences between Alexis and Jesus Christ (the latter being the descendent of David as the former is of Eufemian). In both cases, the one who is described as beloved precedes a man of even greater holiness. The biblical overtones in the poem’s initial portrait of Eufemian continue in the notion of the sterile couple: here, instead of David, it is Abraham who is called to mind. As Abraham and Sarah prayed to God to give them a son and were given Isaac in response, Alexis is born as an answer to the prayers of Eufemian and his wife. This implicit reminder of the story of Abraham and Sarah prompts us to read Eufemian’s fatherhood in light of Abraham’s, offering insight into the role the former is called upon to play in his son’s story. As God asks Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, referring to him as “your only son Isaac, whom you love” (Genesis 22:2),14 Eufemian is called upon to sacrifice his son, “que il par amat tant” (“whom he loves so much” [v. 37]). Not only must he sacrifice his son’s body to the exile and ascetic practices required of Alexis as a saint, he must also sacrifice his idea of who his son should be. He, like Abraham, must allow his hopes for his son to die so that his son may come into his own life. 14. “filium tuum unigenitum, quem diligis” (emphasis added).

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  73 But Eufemian, unlike Abraham, does not clearly understand what God is asking of him until he learns the truth of Alexis’s saintly vocation after the latter’s death. This apparent comparison of Eufemian to David and Abraham (figures who are, after all, explicitly mentioned in the exordium) reveals Eufemian’s significance as a character in the poem. Scholars such as James Chiampi have claimed that Eufemian acts as a sort of personification of the sin Alexis wishes to reject: “Alexis’s rejection of his body and his rejection of his fathers’ goods are acts that point to a more profound rejection—a rejection of his father himself, a man who formed himself in the image of the world”; or even more harshly, “It is inevitable, then, that Eufemian become Alexis’s ‘enemy’ and that Alexis’s self-mortification mean the death of his sonship.”15 But Alexis’s relationship to his family is more complex. Like David and Abraham, Eufemian is a human figure, and as such, imperfect. Nevertheless, a simple fact remains: he is Alexis’s father. André Vauchez, in an article on the interrelatedness of sainthood and lineage, argues that most medieval saints were of aristocratic lineage and that their nobility endows them with a “capital of merit” inherited from their ancestors.16 This view reinforces the idea of genealogical lineage and generational continuity so present in both the Life and the biblical notion of covenant and tells us that Alexis’s merit must derive in some part from that of his father. The secular and biblical ramifications of this initial portrait of Eufemian and his wife reveal the complex nature of the space into which Alexis is born. As place, Rome signifies both worldly and sacred belonging. Rome’s worldly value is represented in the text by Alexis’s parents, while the poem’s understated reminders of the stories of Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, David, and even Jesus Christ serve to imply, before we even hear his story, Alexis’s belonging to the 15. Chiampi, “Vie de saint Alexis,” 135, 136. 16. André Vauchez, “ ‘Beata Stirps’: Sainteté et lignage en Occident aux XIIe et XIVe siècles,” in Famille et parenté dans l’Occident médiévale, ed. Georges Duby and Jacques LeGoff (Palais Farnèse: École française de Rome, 1977), 397–407, quotation on 397–99.

74  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis community of worthies and saints and thereby his participation in God’s ongoing covenant with mankind. The crowds brought to God through Alexis’s intercession at the end of the poem recall God’s covenantal words to Abraham: “I will multiply your descendants as the stars of heaven ..... and by your descendants shall all the nations of the earth bless themselves, because you have obeyed my voice” (Genesis 22:17–18).17 The placement of Alexis’s story in Rome serves to underline this notion of an ongoing, universal community. In his discussion of the translation of the Syriac Life into the Greek, Uitti emphasizes the latter’s greater insistence on the importance of Rome: “By stressing ‘Rome,’ the Greek revision insists upon a highly structured, universalist communitas—a far wider social framework than the Syriac Edessa. The local saint has been ‘universalized.’ ”18 Rome, first the center of the Roman empire, with its universalist language and culture, and then the center of the Catholic Church, broadens the impact of Alexis’s story to the entire world, echoing both God’s words to Abraham and Christ’s words to his disciples: “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations” (Matthew 28:19).19 For eleventhcentury France, Alexis’s affiliation with Rome resonated with its own sense of being heir to Rome’s universal vocation. To summarize, the place into which Alexis is born has two very divergent facets; one might name them more aptly as two different places. One is expressed by the system of values associated with his parents’ worldly position: nobility, power, wealth, and honor. The other is both historical and spiritual, connecting the forefathers of Christ to the whole of Christianity and its saints, and embedding them in the universal idea of Rome. Both places are present in the description of Alexis’s life before his calling becomes clear to him. The rift between them is contained in the prayer spoken by his par17. “multiplicabo semen tuum sicut stellas caeli ..... et benedicentur in semine tuo omnes gentes terrae, quia obedisti voci meae” 18. Uitti, “Old French Vie,” 278. 19. “Euntes ergo docete omnes gentes”

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  75 ents, “Enfant nus done ki seit a tun talent!” (“Give us a child who may be according to your will!” [v. 25]). They utter these words with their minds and hearts rooted in the first place, but it is answered with a child who belongs in the second. Alexis receives a worldly education and, according to his father’s wishes, is given a bride. Alexis’s bride shares many of the characteristics of Alexis’s belonging to Rome. She is a “filie d’un noble Franc” (“daughter of a nobleman” [v. 40]),20 “de halt parentét” (“of high parentage” [v. 41]), “fille ad un conpta de Rome la ciptét” (“daughter of a count of the city or Rome” [v. 42]). Indeed, her Roman-ness represents the core of her identity as she becomes Alexis’s spouse: she is given no other name. She too is an only child, and her father wishes to choose for her an honorable marriage. The portrait of Alexis’s bride is considerably more developed than that in the Latin Vita, where she is described simply as “puellam ex genere imperiali” (“girl of imperial birth”). This development signals a desire on the part of the narrator to expand the importance of the bride’s role in Alexis’s story. Thus, in addition to his parents and the idea of a universal community, the bride too becomes part of what Rome means as place. Furthermore, the Life’s emphasis on the similarity between Alexis and his bride accentuates the affinity of nature and belonging that makes them, from the very beginning, partners in the story to follow.

A Space of Transition: The Nuptial Chamber It is on his wedding day that Alexis realizes that he is called upon to consecrate his life to God. In the Syriac Life (reconstructed by A. Amiaud), Alexis comes to this realization just before the wedding ceremony takes place and flees without a word to his bride.21 From the Greco-Latin version on, Alexis accepts his marriage, leaving only after having spoken with his bride. This fact alone implies 20. “Franc” here could mean “Français,” as Storey indicates, but verse 42 seems to make the more common translations of “noble” or “free” more likely. 21. Arthur Amiaud, La Légende syriaque de saint Alexis (Paris: E. Bouillon, 1889).

76  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis that the bride has been given greater inclusion in Alexis’s quest for holiness. In the Latin Vita, the nuptial chamber scene reads thus: Vespere autem facto dixit Euphemianus filio suo: “Intra, fili, in cubiculum et visita sponsam tuam.” Ut autem intravit, coepit nobilissimus juvenis et in Christo sapientissimus instruere sponsam suam et plura ei sacramenta disserere. Deinde tradidit ei anulum suum aureum et rendam, id est caput baltei, quo cingebatur, involuta in prandeo et purpureo sudario dixitque ei: “Suscipe haec et conserva, usque dum Domino placuerit, et Dominus sit inter nos.”22 Moreover, after evening fell, Eufemian said to his son, “Go into the bedchamber, son, and see your bride.” As he entered, however, the most noble young man and wisest in Christ began to instruct his bride and discuss many sacraments with her. Next, he handed over to her his gold ring and the sword belt he was wearing, wrapped in a white cloth and a purple handkerchief and said to her, “Take these things and keep them safe, as long as God the Lord wills, and may the Lord be among us.”

The Old French Life continues the Vita’s tendency to increase the bride’s role by giving her a more detailed background and by amplifying the nuptial chamber scene considerably. We are informed of Alexis’s feelings before he is instructed by Eufemian to go into the chamber: just after he marries the bride, we are told, “Mais ç’ost tel plait dunt ne volsist nïent: / De tut en tut ad a Deu sun talent” (“But this was an arrangement he wanted not at all / his will is thoroughly turned to God” [vv. 49–50]). The day goes by, night comes, and his father advises him, “ ‘Filz, quar t’en va colcer / Avoc ta spuse, al cumand Deu del ciel’ ” (“ ‘Son, now go lie down / with your wife, by the command of God in heaven’ ” [vv. 52–53]). He does not wish to anger his father, so he goes into the chamber with his wife. Emphasis is placed on Alexis’s conflicted emotions as he becomes aware of 22. Sankt Alexius. Altfranzösische Legendendichtung des 11. Jahrhunderts, ed. Gehard Rohlfs (Niemeyer: Tübingen, 1968), xxvii. I am grateful to Gordon Kelly for his assistance with the English translation.

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  77 his calling: he wavers between what he wants and doesn’t want (“ne volsist nïent,” “ad a Deu sun talent,” “ne volt li emfes sum pedre corocier” [vv. 49, 50, 54]). Eufemian’s words reveal that he sees this marriage as the result of God’s will and is acting in good faith.23 When he enters the chamber, Alexis’s inner struggle is almost palpable. He sees the bed and looks at the maiden. Of the three words used to designate the bride in this passage (spuse [“wife”], muiler [“woman”], pulcela [“maiden”]), she is referred to at the moment when she falls under her husband’s gaze as pulcela, the term most reminiscent of her virginity. By rendering Alexis’s troubled state more explicit and the description of the bedroom more evocative, the narrator develops the associations of this place. Out of the Vita’s sparse “Ut autem intravit” comes a more richly meaningful place infused with the promised sensuality of the marriage bed. It is when confronted with this place that Alexis finally comprehends, fully, what he is called to do. The power of the bedroom as place serves as a catalyst that evokes for Alexis the other place to which he aspires: heaven. In this scene, as he is faced with the belonging of the marriage bed, a competing sense of belonging—to heaven—awakens in Alexis. It is suddenly clear to the saint that he must choose one of the two places set in juxtaposition both thematically and linguistically in the poem’s rhyme, “terrestre” or “celeste.” He chooses the heavenly belonging and immediately expresses his renunciation of earthly attachment spatially by leaving Rome. The passage in which Alexis enters the bedroom—“Com veit le 23. Chiampi reads Eufemian’s invocation of God to coax Alexis into the chamber as an almost blasphemous misunderstanding of God’s will (“Vie de saint Alexis,” 132). Narrative truth is to be found, however, not in the opposition but in the coexistence of Alexis’s and Eufemian’s differing perceptions of the will of God. The Life’s presentation of two coexisting perspectives, held by two good men, underlines how difficult it is for a “normal” person like Eufemian to understand God’s will. As a saint, Alexis has superlative understanding of God. This does not mean that Eufemian, in his belief that God wishes man and wife to be together, is committing the sin of pride. This scene, and the prominent presence of Alexis’s family in general, indicate the poem’s development of a multifaceted truth that surpasses simplistic dualities.

78  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis lit, esguardat la pulcela; / Dunc li remembret de sun seinor celeste, / Que plus ad cher que tut aveir terrestre” (“As he sees the bed, he looked at the maiden; / Then he remembers his heavenly lord, / whom he holds more dear than all earthly possessions” [vv. 56–58, emphasis added])—is remarkably reminiscent of a passage in the Song of Roland in which the Franks, who are returning to France, catch a glimpse (real or imagined) of Gascony. “Puis que il venent a la Tere Majur, / Virent Guascuigne, la tere lur seignur; / Dunc lur remembret des fius e des honurs, / E des pulcele e des gentilz oixurs” (“Reaching the Fatherland / They saw Gascony, their sovereign’s land. / Then they are reminded of their fiefs and of their domains, / And of maidens and of noble spouses” [vv. 818–21, emphasis added]). The similarity of these two passages is startling. First of all, both are based on the phenomenon of the double gaze, one visual and one internalized. Uitti has noted, “The sexuality of earthly love is contrasted with Alexis’ holy vocation, as in the Vita, but here the matter is presented in a double focus, that of the narrator and as though through the protagonist’s own eyes.”24 But the protagonist himself also has double gaze. In the Life, Alexis looks at the pulcela and this sight calls to mind his God. In an inverse development, the Franks see Gascony and remember their wives, pulcele, and terrestrial belonging. Secondly, the idea of remembering is manifest in both passages, evoked in the same terms: “Dunc li remembret de sun seinor celeste” versus “Dunc lur remembret des fius e des honurs.” The different things that are remembered at these pivotal moments indicate strongly the focus of each story: respectively, God or the values associated with home. In both cases, seeing causes the characters to remember a forgotten desire or to reinterpret something they already knew in a new light. Alexis has always loved God, but it takes the sight of the maiden and the thought of the consummation of the marriage to crystallize his awareness of the path his life must take. 24. Uitti, “Old French Vie,” 288.

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  79 Lastly, the comparison of these two passages serves to illustrate how this scene of the Life creates place, that is, takes a space and infuses it with a meaning so powerful that it becomes a driving force in the story. As the sight of Gascony calls to mind a flood of meanings for the Franks, so the sight of the bedroom, the maiden, and the marriage bed reminds Alexis of God, the meaning that guides his life. To remind is an essential function of place. The connotations of place remain the same in both passages: pulcele, aveir terrestre, honurs, fius. What these things mean to the Franks and to Alexis, respectively, differs greatly.25 Upon beholding the aveir terrestre of his wife and the bedroom, Alexis feels oppressed by sin (“Cum fort pecét m’apresset!” [“Such strong sin oppresses me!” (v. 59)]), a fact that shows him to be fiercely tempted by what they offer. Indeed, this is one of only two moments in the poem when Alexis appears tormented about what is happening to him. The second moment occurs when the boat takes him back to Rome (“Quant vit sun regne, durement s’en redutet” [“When he saw his homeland, greatly did he fear” (v. 198)]). For Alexis, there seems to be something terribly threatening about the ties of place.26 When he returns to Rome, he is afraid of being burdened with “l’honur del secle” (“the honors of this world” [v. 200]), but when he sees his wife in the nuptial chamber, he fears losing God himself: “S’or ne m’en fui, mult criem que ne t’em perde” (“If I don’t flee now, I fear greatly that I might lose you” [v. 60]). 25. As we will see, Alexis and Roland are similar in that both resist, as part of their vocation, any emotional attachment to the connotations of place, although for somewhat different reasons. 26. As the term aveir terrestre implies, worldliness represents a dangerous quality of place for the saint. St. Augustine defines saintliness as an ability to hold the world at a distance, as both Alexis and Roland do: “Evils abound in the world in order that the world may not engage our love. Those who have despised the world with all its superficial attractions were great men, faithful saints.” (“Sermones ad populum,” first sermon 80:8, in Oeuvres Complètes de Saint Augustin, ed. and trans. Péronne, Vincent, Écalle, Charpentier, and Barreau, 34 vols. [Paris: Librairie de Louis Vivès, 1872–79], 16:566–73, quotation on 573). English translation from Erich Przywara, An Augustine Synthesis (New York: Harper and Bros., 1958), 434. Cited in Glacken, Traces on the Rhodian Shore, 197).

80  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis Alexis’s flight is thus presented as necessary to the continuation of his relationship with God. The nuptial chamber reveals to him that exile is an integral part of his saintly vocation. Before leaving, however, he takes the time to speak with his wife, deliberately including her in his project. He urges her to consider Christ as her husband, and the affirmation that Alexis showed her the truth of heavenly life (“De la celeste li mostret veritét” [“Of the heavenly [life] he shows her the truth” (v. 64)]) implies some form of understanding and assent on her part. Even as he speaks to her, Alexis feels the pull of exile, which is described as a turning of sorts: “Mais lui est tart quet il s’en seit turnét” (“but it seems to him that he is late in turning away” [v. 65]).27 After entrusting to the bride his swordbelt and wedding ring, he flees. One last reminder is given of his father (the other important representative of place for Alexis): Alexis is described as leaving “la cambre sum pedre” (“his father’s chamber”), and then departing from the country.

Spaces of Exile Thus begins Alexis’s self-imposed exile. Like many prophets and leaders before him (and like Roland), the fulfillment of Alexis’s calling is predicated on his departure from home. One has only to remember Noah, Abraham, and Moses, or Aeneas and Odysseus, to realize that exile and displacement are often integral parts of quest. For many of these heroes, the impetus for exile appears to lie in the future more than in the past. They depart from home in order to accomplish a specific end, often the founding of a city or the discovery of a Promised Land. Their departure often involves the creation of a better place for their people. Saint Alexis is a bit different. To be sure, his identity as a saint motivates him to see exile as a means of reaching the kingdom of heaven. In this sense, therefore, 27. The verb torner is used frequently in the poem, creating a motif of change and transformation, or of their refusal (e.g., “Sa grant onour a grant duel a tornede” [v. 145]; “N’at soing quel veiet, si est a Deu tornez” [v. 245]; “Tuit i acorent, nuls ne s’en vuelt torner” [v. 520]; as well as vv. 344, 488, 520, and 530).

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  81 the denial of this world as expressed through exile is part of a search for a true home, a better place, in the next. (Similarly, Roland defers his attachment to France in order to ensure that the values of France would live on after his death.) Nevertheless, the initial impetus for Alexis’s exile, more than for any of the above characters, is not the will to establish a better place (certainly not an earthly one), but the desire to escape place and its meanings altogether. Alexis has an acute sense of the dangers of being too attached to place. This is why, despite the renunciation of worldly values and the circular spatial trajectory that he shares with pilgrims, I hesitate to refer to Alexis’s journey as a pilgrimage. Alexis is not so much going toward a place (as pilgrims do) as he is fleeing from a place. He has no particular destination in mind as he sets forth from Rome. After Alexis’s departure from Rome in stanza 15, the spatial framework of the poem widens to include outside spaces more “neutral” than the heavily loaded space of Rome. In general, the first third of the poem is more spatially mobile and diverse than the latter two-thirds. The first fifteen stanzas contain both the audienceframework and the crucial descriptions of Rome, Alexis’s family, his bride, and his wedding. Stanzas 16–39 deal with Alexis’s journey and his subsequent return to Rome and the repercussions of his departure on the family left behind. From stanza 40–125, Alexis remains in Rome, and the only movements that take place are those of the procession and burial following his death. Spatially, the poem begins with the brief stasis of Alexis’s “prehistory,” childhood, and adolescence; then launches into a “restless” stage in which the saint’s experiences abroad are interwoven with descriptions of his family’s reactions back in Rome; then settles back into the long stasis of Alexis’s life and death under the staircase and recognition as a saint. Of the poem’s 125 stanzas, only 16 are located elsewhere than in Rome.28 28. The longest version of the Life appears in the twelfth-century MS L (Lamspringen, now Hildesheim), which is used as a base for most editions. The thirteenth-century MS P (Paris B.N., f. fr. 19,525) follows L. The twelfth-century MS A (Asburnham, now

82  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis This numerical breakdown of the poem’s spatiality—literally, of how much text is dedicated to each space—uncovers a certain disjunction in the Life. If one were to read the poem to someone and then ask them what it was about, they would probably affirm that it is the story of a saint who leaves his family for many years, then comes back and lives among them, unbeknownst to them. Qualitatively, Alexis’s exile appears to be, and is, a defining characteristic of his sainthood. Scholarship has dealt primarily with this exile, its meanings and repercussions, and its obvious conflict with his family’s wishes to have Alexis near them. And yet, quantitatively, Rome—Alexis’s home city—is unquestionably the central space of the story. Apart from twenty-three stanzas of exile, Alexis is physically located in the city, and not only in the city, but in his parents’ home. Hence, there is a disjunction between what one could call, metaphorically, the soul and body of the story. Its soul is in the earthly detachment of exile; its body is at home in Rome. That the Life should emphasize exile while anchoring itself in the spatial center of Rome speaks to its hagiographical identity. Because Alexis is a saint, and thus unwavering in his rejection of worldly values in favor of heavenly ones, he is in a sense always in exile from the world, even when he is physically present in it. While he is in Rome for most of the story, his identity as a saint alters his relationship to place, making him see the belonging it offers as a threat to his vocation. The omnipresence of Rome in the story only serves to highlight this saintly estrangement. Moreover, as the Roman people’s zealous clinging to Alexis after his death shows, there are strong ties of belonging between the saint and his city. These ties can only come alive through the saint’s death. In this way, the Life is the story of a belonging deferred. Only the protagonist’s death—a defining moParis B.N., nouv. acq. fr. 4503) ends with Alexis’s burial; and MS V (Vatican Lat. 5334) contains the last two hundred lines. Regarding the manuscript situation, Uitti writes, “LAPV may be seen as together forming a construct—a literary O or ‘Urtext’—at once related to, yet distinct from, the Latin ‘source’ and the later vernacular versions” (“Old French Vie,” 267). For a summary of the Life’s sources, cf. Maurizio Perugi, ed., La Vie de saint Alexis (Geneva: Droz, 2000), 13–100.

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  83 ment without which his calling remains incomplete—can bring this belonging to its full meaning and expression. When Alexis flees from his father’s home and reaches the sea, a boat is ready waiting for him, as if the journey were predestined: “La nef est preste ou il deveit entrer” (“The ship he had to enter is ready” [v. 77]).29 No human purpose directs the boat: the sailors (whose presence is designated only by the use of the third-person plural verbal form) simply let the ship run across the sea (“laisent curre par mer” [v. 79]). It is God’s will that chooses the land for them: “La pristrent terre o Deus les volt mener” (v. 80). In a formulation that appears several times in the poem, always to describe Alexis’s movements, Alexis disembarks a certes, with certainty, upon landing in the port city of Laodicea (“Dunc an eisit danz Alexis a certes” [v. 83]). His departure from Rome and arrival in exile have given Alexis unhesitating purpose, and not until a boat returns him to Rome do we see him waver in it. For Alexis, it would seem, the further he is from home the better he feels. From Laodicea he goes to Edessa with the goal of seeing the “imagine dunt il oït parler” (“a statue he had heard about” [v. 87]). The motherly image of the Virgin, who is described as “la virgine ki portat salvetét, / Sainta Marie ki portat Damnedeu” (“the virgin who carried salvation, / Holy Mary who carried God the Lord” [vv. 89–90]), serves as both a reminder of and a contrast to the saint’s human mother (described in verse 32 as “ki lui portat”). After surrendering his spatial self-determination to divine will in the mysterious ship that takes him to Laodicea, Alexis’s own will returns to determine his move to Edessa.30 His desire to see the Virgin’s statue reflects perhaps his 29. Marie de France reworks this same motif of the awaiting boat and the predestined journey in the lai of Guigemar. After having been wounded by his own arrow, her knightly protagonist wanders to a port where he finds a ship waiting for him: “El hafne out une sule nef, / dunt Guigemar choisi le tref. / Mult esteit bien aparilliee” (Lais, ed. Karl Warnke, trans. Laurence Harf-Lancner, Lettres Gothiques 4523; Le Livre de Poche 13 [Paris: Librairie Générale Française, 1990], vv. 151–53). As a mysterious force whisks Guigemar away to find love, God guides Alexis’s ship to Laodicea. 30. Thus, we see that, although Alexis has surrendered himself to God’s will—a will that expresses itself primarily through spatial means—his surrender remains incomplete,

84  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis need to find a new place and a new belonging to replace those he’s left behind. Interestingly, he seeks out first a place associated with feminine, specifically maternal characteristics. As we will see later, Rome’s strongest (and therefore most fearsome) ties are associated in Alexis’s mind with his mother. It appears to be no coincidence that he first seeks out an image of the divine mother to cast the foundations for his new belonging in exile. This image, still and symbolic, can remind him of the heavenly belonging he seeks (and perhaps the maternal belonging he misses) without imposing the overbearing demands of a real mother. Upon reaching Edessa, Alexis gives away all his possessions (aver) to the poor. It is as though the statue of the Virgin provides him with enough of a new belonging to allow him to relinquish fully the old one. The description of this process suggests spatial movements: Alexis distributes his riches throughout the city (“par Alsis la citét” [v. 92]), giving to the poor wherever he can find them (“u qu’il les pout trover” [v. 94]). Once this is done, he becomes stationary, sitting down among the poor (“Quant sun aver lur ad tot departit, / Entra les povres se sist danz Alexis” [vv. 96–97]). This sitting position, denoting stability as well as poverty, is significant and will be used symbolically throughout the poem. Thus, Alexis attaches himself to a place with few defining characteristics. Edessa is this: the statue of the Virgin, the poor, and the ground upon which he sits. At this point, the spatial context switches back to Rome, in the wake of Alexis’s departure. Vincent argues convincingly the importance of the family’s role in the Life, emphasizing the poet’s deliberate dramatization of the scenes portraying their reaction to Alexis’s flight. About stanza 22, Vincent aptly writes, “With a theatrically abrupt shift in time and place we are transported back to Rome to as his own will continues to exercise a role (also expressed spatially). The spatial progression of the story parallels in fact the vocational progression of its protagonist: Alexis must learn to surrender completely to God’s will. To Alexis’s surprise, divine will reinserts him in the place and the belonging he most desired to flee.

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  85 the discovery of Alexis’s flight. The length of the scene, the symmetrical development of the expressions of distress, and their highly lyrical nature show its importance in the mind of the poet” (532). Not only does the family grieve, but so does the entire city (“E granz deplainz par tuta la citét” [v. 105]). Alexis’s father then sends out his best servants to look for his son “par multes terres” (“through many lands” [v. 112]). They find him, sitting (“sedant”), but do not know his face. The servants’ failure to recognize Alexis reflects his complete transformation: the Alexis they seek is the son of the noble Eufemian, not a holy mendicant. Like the disciples on the road to Emmaus, they are blinded by their limited view of what is possible and fail to recognize the child (for he is still named “li emfes” [v. 116]) they know so well.31 The reason for their utter lack of recognition lies more in their blindness than in Alexis’s transformation, however radical it may be: in six lines, the words “nel reconurent” (“they didn’t recognize him”) are repeated three times. Alexis rejoices in the reversal of positions that has taken place between himself and his servants: “Il fut lur sire, or est lur almosners” (“He was their lord, now he begs alms from them” [v. 124]). This inversion signifies to Alexis that not only has he succeeded in escaping physically from the space of Rome, but he has managed to extricate himself from place, that is, from the identity and values he associates with Rome. The servants return to Rome and announce their lack of success to Eufemian. Once again, the narrator describes the aftermath of this news in Rome, this time focusing on the sorrow of Alexis’s mother. She expresses her grief at not being able to locate him in space (“Ne sai le leu ne n’en sai la contrede / U t’alge querre” [“I do not know the place nor do I know the country / where I could go to look for him” (vv. 133–34)]), and proceeds to strip her chamber 31. As Kendrick points out, three full-page illustrations of Christ’s encounter with the disciples on the road to Emmaus in the St. Albans Psalter indicate the importance of this reference for the Life, as well as for the life of Christina of Markyate, for whom the Psalter was destined (“1123? Manuscripts,” 28).

86  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis bare of all ornament.32 Her actions illustrate the symbolic functioning of space, especially an interior space such as a bedroom or chamber. In an echo of the nuptial chamber, which was full of the unfulfilled promise of sensuality and human love, this chamber must now be emptied to reflect how bereft is the mother’s life without Alexis. The chamber becomes such a metaphor for her life that she addresses it directly: “ ‘Cambra,’ dist ela, ‘ja mais n’estras parede, / Ne ja ledece n’ert an tei demenede’ ” (“ ‘Chamber,’ she said, ‘never again will you be decorated, / never will joy be shown in you’ ” [vv. 141–42]). Her words recall Alexis’s words to his bride in the nuptial chamber regarding their wedding night: “Cesta lethece revert a grant tristur” (“This joy will turn into great sorrow” [v. 70]). Both mother and son equate the chamber with ledece; the former mourns its loss, while the latter focuses on its fleeting quality. The presence of a second “bedroom scene” is far from gratuitous and serves to contrast the nuptial chamber scene. The first chamber holds the promise of both worldly and heavenly lignage; as a place, it holds the potential for both carnal offspring and the very different kind of progeny offered by a saintly life. The second chamber reflects the mother’s sorrow at what is lost through her son’s choice in the first chamber: the happy life she envisioned for him. Her furious insistence that the outside world reflect her inner state causes her to destroy the chamber as one would an enemy: “Si l’at destruite cum s’ost l’ait depredethe” (“So she destroyed it as an enemy would lay it waste” [v. 143]). This need to destroy her space expresses how powerful are its associations: she must make space reflect the loss of the meaning it once held for her. Her enraged destruction, while potentially sinful, also clears the way for a new understanding of, and relationship to, this same space. This new understanding comes to her through the figure of her daughter-in-law, who enters the chamber to comfort her. 32. It is unclear whether the mother divests her own room or that of Alexis: the “la chambre” (or alternatively “sa chambre”) of verse 136 is ambiguous.

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  87 The bride’s presence links the two chamber scenes. In the first, Alexis includes her in his plan as he entrusts her with objects symbolizing both his old self (the sword-belt) and his loyalty to her (the wedding ring). In the nuptial chamber, the carnal bond of marriage undergoes a transformation to become the marriage of two souls united in a life dedicated to God. The notion of mutability and transformation is reworked in the second scene. The ransacking of the room, as well as the narrator’s words, “Sa grant honur a grant dol ad turnede” (“Her great honor has turned to great mourning” [v. 145]), underline this idea of metamorphosis. The mother sits down on the ground (“Del duel s’asist la medre jus a terre” [v. 146]), and her daughter-in-law joins her there, without hesitation (“Si fist la spuse danz Alexis a certes” [v. 147, emphasis added]). Thus, the two women duplicate the spatial position of Alexis, symbolically joining him in his poverty and lowly position. Moreover, the bride’s unhesitating movement in joining her mother-in-law on the ground serves as a direct corollary to Alexis’s disembarkation from the boat, as a comparison of verse 147 with verse 83 shows: “Dunc en eisit danz Alexis a certes” (v. 83). By pledging her loyalty to her bereaved mother-inlaw, the bride is mirroring Alexis’s actions in her own way. In this room stripped bare to mirror the loss of Alexis, a new belonging takes root: the two women will share their suffering, in faithfulness to Alexis. The scenes are joined in a sort of chiasmus: in the first, a man and a woman bind themselves to one another in a shared project, then the woman is left behind in solitude and sorrow; in the second, the mournful figure of a woman is joined by the one left behind in the first, and the two bind themselves to one another in a union that mirrors the spiritual union of Alexis and his wife. As if to emphasize the complementary nature of these two scenes, stanza 32 shifts abruptly from the two women in the chamber back to Alexis in Edessa. These abrupt relocations of the narrative are very common in the Life, either to denote concomitant actions in two different places, as in stanzas 20–21, 25–26, 32, 66–67,

88  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis and 123–24; or to illustrate a displacement, as in stanzas 3, 15, 38, and 39. The technique of concomitant actions also structures the episode depicting Alexis’s existence under the staircase in his parents’ home. Similar to the modern cinematic technique of the split screen or the voice-over declaring “Meanwhile, back at enemy headquarters,” this underscores the poet’s masterful use of spatiality that gives the poem a multidimensional quality. As the bride remains with her mother-in-law to serve her seinur (v. 155), Alexis, so Alexis remains in Edessa to serve his seinur (v. 159), God. The spatial context of the poem then stabilizes as seventeen uneventful years go by (“Dis e seat anz, n’en fut nïent a dire” [v. 161]). The specific number of years is an example of imitatio Christi, for we also know nothing about Jesus’ life between the age of twelve or thirteen (when he is found speaking with the wise men in the temple) and the age of thirty. These are the formative years, before Christ begins his ministry; consequently, Alexis’s years in Edessa probably represent a formative time and his return to Rome the beginning of his “ministry.” The story takes up again when Alexis, convinced he will never leave Edessa, is called by the imagene. Until now, the spatial instability of the poem could be attributed to the constant interventions of Rome into the space of Alexis’s story. The place of Rome was constantly drawing Alexis’s story to itself, on a textual level but always through figures of alterity: parents, servants, bride. This time, it is a figure of divinity, the statue made “el num la virgene” (“in the name of the Virgin” [v. 89]), who interrupts Alexis’s saintly service. The impetus for Alexis’s first displacement, although divinely inspired, nonetheless originated in the saint’s own inner thoughts. This time, the saintly calling is externalized and rendered concrete by a voice assimilated with that most faithful of human intercessors, the Virgin. The Virgin’s intercession at this key moment serves as a certain sign that the realization of Alexis’s vocation, and story, is at hand. The imagene designates Alexis by the name that will be his

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  89 through the end of the poem, “l’ume Deu” (“the man of God” [v. 170]). Until now, we have known only that the statue is located in Edessa, having been made by the angels “par cumandement Deu” (“by God’s command” [v. 88]). Presumably it is in a church, because the statue speaks to the attendant at the altar, and Alexis is summoned by him to the church (“fait l’el muster venir” [v. 181]). There is a lack of clarity concerning the precise location of the imagene, as well as its likeness: we assume it is in the church, but this is not precisely stated; it may be a likeness of the Virgin, but we know only that it was created in her name. Perhaps these facts would have been so obvious to the poem’s audience that they did not require clarification. Still, a certain mysteriousness surrounds this godly image. Surprisingly, we learn that while Alexis went to Edessa because of the statue, he did not stay near it. The sacristan sent by the statue has trouble finding him, a consistent theme in Alexis’s story, which appears first when Eufemian’s servants look for him unsuccessfully; then here, then lastly after his death, when another mysterious voice exhorts the people of Rome to seek out “l’ume Deu.” Each time the motif of the difficult search appears, it marks a turning point in Alexis’s sainthood. The servants’ search comes at the beginning of his life in exile and is the only unsuccessful search, perhaps because they were not looking for l’ume Deu but for Lord Alexis, who no longer existed. The sacristan’s quest is successful, for he finds Alexis and transmits his message, but still the saint eludes the people’s grasp. Finally, after his death, he is sought for and found, because he can now take on wholly his identity as a saint, without fearing the taint of earthly attachment. Here, when the sacristan fails to find him the first time, he returns to the imagene, who gives Alexis’s location: “Ço’st cil qui tres l’us set” (“It is the one who sits near the door” [v. 178]). He is yet again seated outside, just across the portal. His position outside the church is one of humility; the fact that he needs to be summoned into the church suggests, spatially, that the goal that brought him to Edessa (the statue) has not yet been reached nor his saintly formation completed.

90  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis Instead of obeying the statue’s command to come (“ ‘Fai l’ume Deu venir’ ” [v. 171]), Alexis flees Edessa when his saintliness becomes known to the people. (I will explore this “disobedience” in a later section.) As when he left Rome, he is propelled into movement in avoidance of others’ interest in him. It is difficult to know why God, who guided Alexis’s ship to Laodicea, chose to bring him to this particular space of the world. The only defining characteristic of Edessa is the presence of the statue, a godly, womanly, and maternal presence. In the Life, what matters in Alexis’s exile is not so much the space he finds himself in but the place he emphatically renounces.

The Return to Rome Passing once more through Laodicea, Alexis boards a ship bound for Tarsus. As his exile began, his destination mattered little to him, and he disembarked in Laodicea without hesitation. Now, he hopes to reach Tarsus, the city of Saint Paul; however, he is destined to arrive in Rome, the city with which his own sainthood will be associated. His departure from Edessa and failed journey to Tarsus manifest spatially the truth that his trajectory must once more be determined by God’s will, not his own. The lesson of complete and saintly surrender that Alexis must learn comes to him through spatial means. When he sees his native land (“son regne” [v. 198]), he is full of fear: of his parents, of being recognized, of the honors of this world. Once again, we are reminded of the reaction of the Franks upon perceiving Gascony: their native land has the same connotations as for Alexis, but for them, these connotations are desirable. In contrast, Alexis fears them so greatly that it causes him to question, however slightly, God’s will: “bels reis qui tut guvernes, / Se tei ploüst, [i]ci ne volisse estra” (“Good king who rules over all, / if it were to please you, I would not want to be here” [vv. 201–2]). The resemblance between his words and Christ’s at Gethsemane (“Father, if thou art willing, remove this cup from me; nevertheless not

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  91 my will, but thine, be done” [Luke 22:42])33 implies the extent of Alexis’s anguish at the thought of falling under his family’s power. For him, the return to Rome represents his saintly Passion. Yet it is to Rome that he comes, brought by God’s will. If we accept that the seventeen years spent in Edessa are, in an example of imitatio Christi, years of preparation for Alexis’s “ministry,” then it is unquestionably in Rome that this ministry is to take place. Despite his initial reluctance, Alexis, for the first time, considers his departure from his family’s point of view: “Mais nepurhuec mun pedre me desirret, / Si fait ma medra plus que femme qui vivet, / Avoc ma spuse que jo lur ai guerpide” (“But nevertheless my father longs for me, / and so does my mother, more than any woman living, / with my wife whom I left behind with them” [vv. 206–8]). Although he remains determined not to fall into their power (“Or ne lairai nem mete en lur bailie” [“Now I will not allow them to place me in their power” (v. 209)]), the thought of their suffering seems to effect a change in him, perhaps allowing him to accept his return to Rome as part of God’s plan. Abruptly ceasing his alarmed speech, he declares decisively, “Nem conuistrunt: tanz jurz ad que nem virent” (“They will not know me: it has been so many days that they haven’t seen me” [v. 211]), and deliberately approaches his father in the street, asking him for shelter in the name of Eufemian’s son. Little attention has been paid to this sudden change in Alexis’s attitude toward his unintentional homecoming. It marks, however, a crucial turning point in his trajectory: instead of running away from all associations of home, he suddenly decides to return to his parents’ house. The reasons for this change of heart are veiled to the audience. His new resolve begins with the recognition of the transformation he has undergone (so radical that they will not know him), and strengthens as he walks through the familiar streets of Rome (“Vait par les rues dunt il ja bien fut cointe, / Altra pur alter” 33. “Pater, si vis, transfer calicem istum a me: verumtamen non mea voluntas, sed tua fiat”

92  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis [vv. 212–13]). We see in this scene the symbiosis of space and place: his arrival in the space of Rome reminds Alexis of the placemeanings he associates with it (represented by his family). The remembrance of his family finds an immediate textual echo in Alexis’s spatial “re-membering” of Rome’s familiar streets, literally “one after the other.” It is as though we were seeing space and place interact before our eyes through the footsteps of our protagonist and the memories they inspire. Alexis is now ready to return to place. At the center of this change in attitude is Alexis’s realization that he is so transformed that he no longer need fear his parents’ influence. In a pattern perhaps familiar to many adults who return to their childhood home after a long absence, Alexis’s initial fear of being forced by his family to reassume an unwanted past identity progressively gives way to confidence in the strength of his new identity. God’s will brings Alexis home, and initially “home” holds the same meaning for him as it did in childhood (the denial of his saintly calling). Gradually, he understands that God is calling him to transcend his former understanding of Rome. He must see it not as the antithesis of his calling, but as an element essential to its fulfillment. Contrary to Maddox’s claim that the saint’s return to Rome constitutes “an ironic commentary on the true nature of the earthly pilgrimage: The pilgrim’s original conceptualization of spiritual growth in spatial terms is undercut by the idea that the ultimate fulfillment of God’s will takes place regardless of the pilgrim’s earthly itinerary,”34 this return is vitally necessary. The fulfillment of God’s will for Alexis does not take place regardless of his spatial itinerary; rather, as Maddox himself notes, “The pilgrimage narrative acquires its primary significance in L and A only after it becomes entangled with the fate of Rome” (150). The saint’s itinerary represents an integral component of God’s will, and his true ministry may well be to integrate his sainthood within the place of Rome, as he seems to realize while walking through the streets of the city. 34. Maddox, “Pilgrimage Narrative,” 150.

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  93 And so, Alexis returns to his parents’ home, taking his place under the staircase. Instead of sitting, he is now lying down (“soz le degrét ou il gist sur sa nate” [“under the staircase where he lies on his mat” (v. 246)]). In addition to indicating that the saint’s physical position has become even more lowly than before, the bed under the staircase serves to remind us of the conjugal bed that provoked Alexis’s saintly calling, or at least his reception of it. While his calling began in the place of the marriage bed, with all its sensual, earthly, and earthy connotations, it ends in the place of a beggar’s bed, lowly and meager. Signified in these two places is the declining movement of the saint’s worldliness and the emergent perfection of his saintliness. Yet the two places, so different, are also both contained in the same house, showing that in the end, Alexis’s earthly place must participate in his saintly vocation. Earthly place and heavenly place, so long set in either/or opposition, approach one another in Eufemian’s house as Alexis’s earthly life nears its end. Alexis’s family, however, remains blind to his presence among them. While Alexis recognizes Eufemian immediately (v. 215), and his family sees him every day, they are so focused on their sorrow— on themselves—that they take no notice of him. Their self-absorbed lack of curiosity regarding the pauper living under their staircase is striking (“ne il nel demanderent, / Quels hom esteit ne de quel terre il eret” [“nor did they ask him / what man he was nor what land he was from” (vv. 239–40)]). Their continued mourning of their lost son and husband underlines the discrepancy between the man they desire and the man who is. While Alexis’s detachment from their suffering may appear uncaring to modern sensibilities, it is important to remember that Alexis must remain faithful to his calling, no matter the compassion he feels for his family. They want an Alexis who does not exist, a memory, a fabrication of their desires; Alexis the saint lives in their midst and yet goes ignored and unrecognized. The narrator insists on this lack of recognition on the part of his family, those with whom Alexis belonged: “Nel reconut nuls sons apartenanz” (v. 272).

94  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis (This, too, is an example of imitatio Christi, recalling the Jews’ failure to recognize Jesus Christ.) Alexis’s duty is to fulfill his ascetic calling. If his family does not recognize his presence, it is because their inflexible notion of who he should be has blinded them to his true nature. Unlike Alexis’s stay in Edessa, the details of which remain untold, the sojourn under the staircase is more amply described. He eats the leftovers from the table, gives whatever he doesn’t need to the poor, and is mocked and treated unkindly by his father’s servants, who throw the dirtied dishwater on his head. Spatially, he moves about the city a bit, for we are told that he spends time in church (“En sainte eglise converset volenters” [“In the holy church he willingly spends time” (v. 256)]). This detail not only indicates Alexis’s involvement with the space of the city (as he comes and goes, we imagine him seeing his family and the people of Rome, and being seen—though not yet recognized—by them). It also foreshadows his body’s last earthly journey, this time fully recognized as that of a saint, as it is brought to be buried in the Church of St. Boniface. The binarism between his former wealth (connoted by linage/ parage) and present poverty (Deu/poverte), which governs the entire poem, is rendered explicit in stanza 50: “A grant poverte deduit sun grant parage / ..... / Plus aimet Deu que [tres]tut sun linage” (“To great poverty he reduces his high birth / ..... / He loves God more than all his lineage” [vv. 248, 250]). Later, after his death, this binarism will be subsumed into the overarching contrast between Alexis’s lowly life on Earth and his glorious inheritance in heaven; between his unrecognized identity and detachment from place in life and his powerful bond to Rome after death. The echoes of imitatio Christi multiply in the passage preceding Alexis’s death. For the first time since his childhood, we have a reference to the saint’s learnedness, for he is said to find counsel in “Sainte escriture” (“Holy writ” [v. 258]). This detail prepares us for the other form of holy writ about to appear: the letter containing Alexis’s story. His life under the staircase parallels Christ’s Passion: his crown of

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  95 thorns is the dirty water; he is mocked by “li serf sum pedre” (“his fathers’ servants” [v. 263]), as Christ was by his Father’s servants; he bears it all patiently and prays God “quet il le lur parduinst, / par sa mercit, quer ne sevent que funt” (“that he pardon them / in his mercy, for they do not know what they do” [vv. 269–70]). He lives this way for seventeen years, which not only brings the total time of his saintly vocation to thirty-four years, close to the thirty-three years of Christ’s life, but also splits the story of the vocation into two equal parts. Space is the factor that differentiates these two periods, one of which is spent away from home, the other at home. In some way, however, both periods are lived in exile. In Edessa, Alexis is exiled both physically and mentally; in Rome, his inner exile continues while he is physically located in the place of home. This second phase is, certainly, the more difficult to maintain and serves to illustrate the saint’s fundamental identity: he is not, cannot be, of this world, even while in it. He is an exile among us.

Final Spaces As his death grows near, the nature of Alexis’s belonging to Rome and the role he is to play there becomes clear. That divine will should bring him back to Rome signals the importance of this belonging, but this is seemingly contradicted by Alexis’s total detachment from place. The voice heard in the city the week of his death first summons all the faithful, and then articulates Alexis’s role: “Que l’ume Deu quergent, ki est an Rome, / Si [li] depreient que la citét ne fundet / Ne ne perissent la gent ki enz fregundent” (“They should seek out the man of God, who is in Rome, / and pray to him that the city not be destroyed / nor the people who live there perish” [vv. 297–99]). Alexis is destined to be the savior of Rome but will only be recognized as such once he has died. By sending the voice’s summons precisely when he does, God respects Alexis’s wish never to be burdened by the honors recognition would bring. With the same objective, Alexis hides the letter in which he tells of his life,

96  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis so that “Ne[l] reconuissent usque il s’en seit alét” (“They not recognize him before he has gone away”’ [v. 287]). The earthly ties of place must not bind the saint in life but can only extend to him after death. When they do, the saint’s privileged location in heaven brings the earthly place with which he was associated closer to God. The nearness of Alexis’s death expands the previous definition of Rome to include not just Eufemian’s household but also the pope, two emperors, and indeed the entire Roman people and the whole of Christendom they represent. The presence of both spiritual and secular leaders demonstrates that Alexis’s sainthood belongs to everyone, in both a spiritual and also a most real and earthly manner. Therein lies the profound relevance of the saint’s dead body and its sumptuous burial: the physical presence of the saint renders the Romans’ space sacred. The saint’s life is not just an inspirational story but a real and physical presence. In the broadening of the poem’s definition of Rome from family to the entire community, a transformation takes place in the crucial notion of lignage. The carnal lignage so central to the misunderstanding between Alexis and his family has become, through his death, a universal lignage, vaster than anything his parents could have imagined. From the dark corner under the staircase, Alexis’s body is carried into the city by the crowds of the faithful. This abrupt transfer from the womb-like space to the open space of Rome represents a sort of rebirth in which Alexis’s identity and role undergo a drastic transformation. Once he is recognized through his own writing, the honors and attention that he fled in life flood in, and suddenly, le cors saint Alexis (v. 507) is being touched and held by huge crowds in the streets of Rome.35 Even before his burial, his body renders space sacred, bringing God to the people in a real, embodied way and giv35. About the sense of touch, Tuan remarks, “Touch is the direct experience of resistance, the direct experience of the world as a system of resistances and pressures that persuade us of the existence of a reality independent of our imaginings. To see is not yet to believe: hence Christ offered himself to be touched by the doubting apostle” (Topophilia, 8). For the people of Rome, to touch Alexis’s body ensures their belief in his reality.

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  97 ing them a ledice they’ve never known: “Pur cel saint cors qu’il unt en lur bailie: / Ço lur est vis que tengent Deu medisme” (“Because of that holy body they have in their power: / it seems to them that they hold God Himself ” [vv. 538–39]). The people’s joy presents a sharp contrast with Alexis’s own deliberate avoidance of any such joy, underlining the fact that we are not called necessarily to imitate the saint, but to celebrate his life. As Alexis’s body moves through the city, its holiness permeates the space around it, healing the infirm and spreading joy. The body, indeed, becomes a place of holiness. The presence of the saint’s body even brings happiness to space itself: “Feliz le liu ú sun saint cors herberget!” (“Happy the place where his holy body resides!” [v. 570]). It is the emperors who see to it that the body is brought to its final resting place in the Church of St. Boniface. That the secular rulers should be responsible for burying Alexis reflects the earthly relevance of the burial. The saint’s grave represents his integration into place after a life lived in exile; it is perfectly fitting that this integration should be accomplished by the emperors, who are embodiments of earthly place. In the fifteen stanzas (111–25) contained in MS L that do not appear in MS A, the narrator dwells considerably on the people’s desire to keep the body above ground. Although they neither recognized nor desired Alexis while alive, they retroactively discover the depth of their attachment to him (“La gent de Rome, ki tant l’unt desirrét” [“The people of Rome, who so longed for him” (v. 571)]). It is as though he filled a void they did not know they had. Their acute desire to keep Alexis’s physical body among them has a practical motivation: not only does it save the city from the threat of destruction pronounced by the voice, it also brings miraculous healing to Rome’s infirm. Moreover, the people’s desire mirrors his family’s longing for him in the beginning of the poem. In both cases, the strength of people’s attachment to Alexis reflects a desire to keep him integrated in place.

98  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis The additional fifteen stanzas of MS L serve to reinforce and amplify the bonds of place between Alexis and Rome, a notion already present in the first 110 stanzas. Responding to Howard Robertson’s claim that L’s additional stanzas represent a betrayal of A’s lesson of asceticism, Maddox argues that the two manuscripts represent two differing interpretative viewpoints (L favoring Alexis’s identity as an intercessory saint and A that of the pilgrim saint). The study of the values of space and place reveal, however, that Alexis’s connection to Rome, which is amplified in L’s last stanzas, is already strongly present in the stanzas L and A have in common. In both manuscripts, the saint’s return to Rome and the bond to his native city that this return signifies represent essential elements in the fulfillment of his sainthood. Both L and A reflect the tension between the necessary asceticism of a saint’s life and his profoundly connected and celebratory belonging to the world after death. As Maddox suggests, the different emphasis placed on this tension by L and A may reflect the divergent theological convictions of their respective authors, without changing the fundamental importance of Alexis’s reintegration into Rome in both manuscripts.

Pla ce s of Earth and Heaven The Life of Saint Alexis portrays human belonging to only one space, the city of Rome. Yet Rome means something different to each of the poem’s characters. From the narrator and his audience, to Alexis’s father, mother, and bride, to the people of Rome, to Alexis himself, the objective and neutral space of Rome takes on varied connotations. In other words, the space of Rome is a different place for each character, according to the significance Rome holds for them. As I have pointed out, the spatial framework of the Life’s narrative is endowed with almost no neutral qualities (such as landscape descriptions or indications of location), but is instead immediately saturated with values and meaning. These divergent meanings

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  99 of Rome for each of the poem’s characters are the prime motivating factors behind their actions. I propose now to examine briefly these distinct faces of belonging in the Life.

The Place of the Audience As I pointed out in the first section of this chapter, the Life’s audience plays an instrumental role in establishing the place into which Alexis’s story will be inserted. On a most basic level, the audience for the Life told in MS L of the St. Albans Psalter would likely have been the community of recluse women led by Christina of Markyate. The implications of this real implacement for the interpretation of the Life have been well outlined by Kendrick. I use a broader definition of the term “audience” here, which includes Christina’s community but also the wider French-speaking, and even simply Christian, audience. The place of the audience frames Alexis’s story. In this sense, the story takes root in the people listening to it, in their need for the saint, and in the continuous community they form with their ancient ancestors. The poem begins and ends with an evocation of the audiencecommunity’s neediness. The incipit describes the world as old, frail, and declining; the epilogue laments the loss of reason, vision, and memory that result from sin: Las! malfeüz! cum esmes avoglez! Quer ço veduns que tuit sumes desvez. De noz pechez sumes si ancumbrez, La dreite vide nus funt tresoblïer (vv. 616–19)

Alas! Wretched ones! How blinded we are! For we see that we are insane. Of our sins we are so encumbered, they make us completely forget the right way.

Alexis’s life, through the words of the poet, reilluminates this dark, colorless world: “Par cest saint home doüssum ralumer” (“Through

100  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis this holy man we should receive new light” [v. 620, emphasis added]). The story is much more than a source of entertainment, or even of memory: it is a means to salvation. As such, its primary purpose is to be efficacious. Alexis’s life, and the story of his life, find their reason for being in the acute need of their audience. Nowhere more than in the genre of the saint’s life is the therapeutic efficaciousness of storytelling so tangible. The healing of the sick of Rome, which is accomplished within the story by the body of Saint Alexis, has a direct corollary in the spiritual healing of the poem’s audience, accomplished this time through the story itself. The audience is, in this way, identified strongly with the people of Rome, although the two groups are not precisely the same. One group, like Christ’s apostles, believes because they have seen the saint’s body with their own eyes; one, like most Christians, believes because they have heard his story. I have already discussed how the poet universalizes the Life’s impact and relevance through the development of Rome as spatial context. The insertion of Alexis’s life into this particular city creates a certain kind of place for his story, one of universal community. The placing of his life, on a broader level, into the framework of the poem’s French-speaking audience offers a masterful reworking of the notion of translatio. The we of the audience are not identical to the Romans who first witnessed Alexis’s sainthood; we are, however, a continuation of them. The translatio illustrated here is a spiritual one, involving the transfer of a people’s relationship to a saint through the medium of writing. The poem’s French-speaking audience inherits the Romans’ privileged connection to Alexis. They can only envy the latter’s proximity to the saint and are indebted to them for their knowledge of his life. At the same time, however, they contribute to this knowledge through their poetic celebration of his memory. By embedding the place of Rome within the place of Rome’s successor, France, the Life exemplifies the notion of translatio upon which its interpretation depends.

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  101 The saint’s holy life transforms the values of place previously associated with Rome (power, learning, wealth, universality) into the universal Christian belonging that will define the city henceforth. (Indeed, Alexis undergoes this same transformation from worldly to godly belonging in his very person, individually modeling that which must be accomplished by the entire collective, historical reality of Rome. In this sense, then, Alexis truly is the place of Rome.) His sainthood does not so much take root in Rome as Rome takes root in his sainthood. In an inversion of the normal order of things, place, both of Rome and of the audience, stands in a relationship of dependency vis-à-vis Alexis. This inversion is exemplified by the attitude of the two emperors, lords (seniur) who become servants: “Cil dui seniur ki l’empirie guvernent, / Quant il i veient les vertuz si apertes, / Il le receivent, sil plorent e sil servent” (“Those two lords who rule the empire, / when they see the miracles so apparent, / they receive him, they weep for him and serve him” [vv. 561–63]). Through its need of redemption, the worldly Rome of Eufemian is transformed into the place of a saint.

Eufemian I have already argued the importance of Eufemian’s role in interpreting the Life. Alexis’s father is the first character mentioned in the poem; Alexis himself is first defined as “un son fil” (“a son of his” [v. 15]). Eufemian’s belonging to Rome serves as a frame of reference for all subsequent belonging in the poem. The fact that Alexis first defines his sainthood in opposition to his father’s belonging does not change the fact that he is Eufemian’s son. The most significant indication of this bond occurs at the interpretatively crucial midpoint of the poem, in stanza 63. The people of Rome are searching for the holy man destined to save them from demise. A voice tells them, “An la maisun Eufemïen quereiz. / Quer iloec est, iloc le trovereiz” (“In the house of Eufemian search. / For there he is, there you will find him” [vv. 314–15, emphasis added]). Thus, the identity and identifi-

102  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis cation of Alexis as saint is unquestionably linked to his father and to the place, both literal and metaphorical, of la maisun Eufemïen: he is not only physically located in his house, he is of his house. The notion of lineage present in the term la maisun Eufemïen shows how closely related are the notions of place and lineage in the Life. The notion of lineage in the Life has been much discussed, and I shall make here only a brief addition to existing scholarship. As Nancy Vine Durling notes, the Old French Life is the first text in which the term lignage appears. For her, “Alexis is defined by his opposition to his lineage; his devotion to God supersedes his love not only for his immediate family, but for all his kin, past, present and future.” Later, she rightly suggests that “Alexis’ return to Rome therefore will ultimately imply—indeed will necessitate—a reconciliation with his family and his lineage.” However, instead of explaining how Alexis’s sainthood is, in the end, reconciled with his family, Vine Durling explains the reconciliation solely in terms of writing, concluding, “The text, indeed, becomes a substitute for biological lineage. Writing thus becomes the defining attribute of the saint in the OFr. narrative.”36 The prominence of Eufemian in this story of Saint Alexis, in particular at the Life’s midpoint, implies that the notion of lignage is indeed reworked over the course of the poem but in a more embodied way than Vine Durling suggests. Throughout his exile, Alexis does define himself in opposition to the carnal lineage envisioned by his parents. Alexis’s return to Rome, however, in addition to the conspicuous role of his family, his designation as a member of la maisun Eufemïen, and especially the extremely close bond that develops between him and the people of Rome/France, proves that it is not just through textual transmission that lignage lives on. Through Alexis, Eufemian’s lineage expands to include the entire city of Rome as well as Rome’s descendants. The value of lignage is not so much de36. Vine Durling, “Hagiography and Lineage,” 454, 466, 468.

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  103 nied, nor sublimated into the domain of writing, as it is transformed into an ongoing relationship with a place. This transformation of lignage is clearly part of God’s will, or talent (v. 25), for what is to be accomplished through Alexis’s life. Eufemian engages, from the beginning, the sympathy and understanding of the audience. (After all, if Eufemian’s and his wife’s prayers for a child are deemed worthy of such a miraculous answer, the couple is probably not entirely lacking in righteousness.) As Vincent correctly notes, “This is a warm picture of a good, upright, successful man, devoted to his temporal lord and of exemplary piety ..... He embodies, albeit somewhat ideally, the joys, cares, and aspirations common to most fathers.”37 His fault, if anything, lies in his failure to see, and this failure is shared by all who come into contact with the saint. Accustomed to the assumed traditions of his belonging, he fails to perceive that God is at work in his son. Like many fathers, he sees Alexis as he wants and expects him to be, not as he is. His eyes are closed to the miraculous event that is occurring within his own household: the birth of a saint. We are meant to recognize ourselves in Eufemian. Eufemian is the only “secondary” character of the poem to be described at any length through a means other than direct discourse. His words underline his sadness at losing one so dear to him. Upon learning that Alexis has run away, he says, “Cher filz, cum t’ai perdut?” (“Dear son, how did I lose you?” [v. 106]).38 Thus, his first words of sorrow question his own responsibility in his loss. His next words are spoken to Alexis himself, who has asked Eufemian’s charity in his own name; he willingly gives the beggar lodging, “por amor Deu e pur mun cher ami” (“for the love of God and for the sake of my dear beloved” [v. 223]). In the interval between these two instances of Eufemian’s direct discourse, we have witnessed several 37. Vincent, “Dramatic Aspect,” 531. 38. Contrary to Storey, I prefer to see Eufemian’s statement here as a question rather than an exclamation.

104  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis stanzas of direct discourse by the mother and the bride in the second chamber scene. Thus, the audience is privy to the development of the women’s internal state, but not Eufemian’s. The first words he pronounces after this long silence—“por amour Deu”—serve as an indication of long inner reflection and growing piety. He takes Alexis into his home for the love of God, as he once entreated him to enter the nuptial chamber “al cumand Deu del ciel” (v. 53). For Eufemian, home and place are closely connected to God’s command. When the servant who has been caring for Alexis tells Eufemian that the beggar living under the staircase has died and is possibly the much sought “ume Deu” (v. 343), Eufemian goes alone to see the man who is still designated as “sun filz” (“his son” [v. 345]). The juxtaposition of these two names connotes the pathos underlying the conflict between Alexis’s familial and saintly identities. The father is the first to lift the sheets covering the saint’s face, the first to see the countenance made beautiful by death (“Vit del sain[t] home le vis e cler e bel” [“He saw the clear and beautiful face of the holy man” (v. 347)]). Still he does not recognize him as his son. We see here how complete is the disjunction between Alexis’s true identity and his family’s vision of him. When the reading of Alexis’s letter finally reveals the truth, Eufemian once more emphasizes his own fault in having failed to recognize Alexis: “A! las, pecables, cum par fui avoglét! / Tant l’ai vedud, si nel poi aviser!” (“Ah! unfortunate sinner, how blinded I was! / I saw him so often, yet I couldn’t recognize his face!” [vv. 394–95]).39 He then proceeds to evoke the many facets of his own belonging. By listing what are for him the many meanings of place—“mes granz ereditez” (“my great estate” [v. 401]), “mes larges terres” (“my broad lands” [v. 402]), “mes granz paleis” (“my great palaces” [v. 403]), “ma grant honur” (“my great honor” [v. 407]), the helmet, mail, sword, 39. Eufemian’s blind struggle with his son’s departure, as well as his self-accusation when he belatedly learns the truth, are reminiscent of the character of King Mark in the legend of Tristan and Iseut, as we will see in the last chapter.

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  105 and emperor’s banner Alexis should have carried, “cum fist tis pedre e li tons parentez” (“as did your father and your ancestors” [v. 415])— Eufemian shows that he understands that it is precisely these meanings, and not he himself, that have been rejected by his son. In this long speech, we see Eufemian come to realize that Alexis was called to a belonging quite different from his own. Implicit in this realization is Eufemian’s new insight into the nature of his own belonging to place. “Filz, t’ies deduit par alïenes terres!” (“Son, you lived your life in foreign lands!” [v. 417]): this expression of the saint’s “alienation” in spatial terms reveals how significant a role is played by the notion of place in the misunderstanding between father and son.

The Mother As I have noted, Alexis’s mother shares with her husband a similar type of belonging to Rome. She is wealthy and honorable, “des melz gentils de tuta la cuntretha” (“of the most noble of all the country” [v. 20]). This initial similarity in the descriptions of father and mother has led many scholars to treat them more or less en bloc, as the “uncomprehending parents.” In fact, the respective portraits of Eufemian and his wife are strikingly different, and the narrator has clearly taken pains to paint them as two separate and unique individuals. Alexis’s mother, in particular, stands out sharply in the reader’s mind, for her incomprehension of her son’s actions, and resulting painful emotions, are vehemently expressed. Both she and her husband are fundamental in determining the nature of the place into which Alexis is born. Moreover, as the saint’s mother, her body is literally his first place, and so a close examination of this character is vital. When she first hears the news of Alexis’s departure, the woman referred to only as “la medre”40 declares, “Lasse! qu’est devenut?” (“Wretched woman! What has become of him?” [v. 107]). Thus, in 40. The mother’s namelessness in the Life stands in contrast with the Latin Vita, which gives her the name Aglaes and goes against the OF Life’s usual trend of adding detail to the Vita. This shift emphasizes la medre’s motherhood as defining characteristic.

106  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis contrast with her husband, whose first words are “chiers filz,” she first designates her own wretchedness (“lasse!”), then the fact that Alexis has become something unknown to her. Her words upon hearing of the servants’ unsuccessful attempt to find Alexis continue along these same lines of self-centeredness: “Filz Ale[x]is, pur quei[t] portat ta medre? / Tu m’ies fuït, dolente en sui remese” (“Son Alexis, why did your mother bear you? / You fled from me, grieving I stayed behind” [vv. 131–32]). He did not just flee, he fled from her; his departure causes her to question the very purpose of his birth. The reason for her sorrow is expressed spatially: “Ne sai le leu ne n’en sai la contrede / U t’alge querre.” (“I do not know the place nor do I know the country / where I could go to look for him” [vv. 133–34]). His departure has made her unable to locate him; he has broken her frame of reference, and her place cannot remain the same without him. Upon these words follow her deliberate destruction of her own chamber. Alexis seems to sense that the strength of his mother’s connection to him poses the greatest danger to his objective of total detachment from the world. In the middle of stanza 50’s double binarism, opposing poverte with parage and Deu with linage, stands the striking verse, “Ço ne volt il que sa mere le sacet” (“He doesn’t want his mother to know it” [v. 249]). Of all people, Alexis does not want his mother to know how he has diminished his grant parage; she is the one who threatens most to disrupt his calling. Through the poem’s portrayal of her grief, more extreme and violent than that of any other character, the narrator ensures that we, as readers, understand that Alexis’s fear is well founded. The mother is not present when Alexis’s letter is read; she comes running only when she hears her husband’s lament. It is not clear precisely what she hears, but she seems to grasp immediately what has happened. Without receiving any precise explanation, she sees the dead man and knows he is her son; as before, she joins him by falling to the ground:

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  107 De la dolur qu’en demenat li pedra Grant fut la noise, si l’antendit la medre: La vint curant cum femme forsenede ..... Vit mort sum filz, a terre chet pasmede (vv. 421–23, 425)

From the pain shown by the father great was the noise, so the mother heard it: she came running like a wild woman ..... She saw her son dead, fell to the ground in a faint.

Her recognition is immediate, unlike Eufemian’s, as though she knew without being told that so great a sorrow could only be about her lost son. Although her maternal connection to Alexis did not help her to recognize him while alive, she identifies him immediately once he is dead. Only then, perhaps, does reality mirror her own internal sense of having lost her son forever. The mother, more than her husband and daughter-in-law, resists the thought that Alexis was acting out of anything other than contempt for her. In her lament, she focuses time and again on her wretchedness and her son’s failure to consider her feelings: “ ‘E Filz,’ dist ele, ‘cum m’oüs enhadithe!’ ” (“ ‘Oh Son,’ she said, ‘how you hated me!’ ” [v. 433]); “Mar te portai, bels filz! / E de ta medra que n’aveies mercit?” (“Woe that I bore you, good son! / And of your mother why did you not have mercy?” [vv. 437–38]); “Filz Alexis, mult oüs dur curage / Cum avilas tut tun gentil linage!” (“Son Alexis, what hard courage you had / when you debased your noble lineage!” [vv. 446–47]). Her pain is as visceral as the memory of carrying Alexis in her womb, which she evokes repeatedly. Her place is one of an attachment so strong that she cannot see her son as separate from herself. (The self-serving grief of Alexis’s mother highlights by contrast the humble acceptance of the Virgin Mary, a Christian model of motherhood, as she faces her own son’s death.) In her long lament, the mother gives voice to the objections many readers may have to Alexis’s behavior. I would argue that this

108  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis deliberate presentation of opposing points of view—a sort of plurivocality—is one of the poem’s most remarkable characteristics. The medieval genre of the saint’s life is often considered as a kind of Christian propaganda, written to persuade its audience to adhere to certain religious values. One might therefore expect a hagiographical tale to leave out details that might cause the listener reasonably to question the saint’s behavior. While the topos of the uncomprehending family is common in hagiography, the Life’s portrait of family is more developed and conflicted than most. Alexis’s family, and in particular his mother, articulate many of the doubts a “normal” person might have regarding Alexis’s behavior and do so in a sympathetic and human manner. This does not mean that one should question whether or not Alexis did the right thing. The reader is meant to believe with certainty that Alexis fulfilled his saintly calling in an exemplary manner. Even so, the poet does not attempt to smooth over the discomfort Alexis’s saintly calling causes his family. On the contrary, he allows the calling and the discomfort to coexist, forcing the reader to pose the difficult question of how they can be reconciled. As Vincent writes, “In the reactions of the father, mother, and bride to the divinely ordered events of their loved one’s progress to sainthood we can view the family of the poem not as puppets in a sorrowful drama, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing, but as real people, blindly struggling in a drama of grief and desolation, to be led at last to light, joy, reward, signifying salvation.”41 The struggle of Alexis’s family teaches us as much about sainthood as does the example of Alexis’s life. It also reflects the Life’s dual purpose for the clerkly poet: both to appeal to the sensibilities of an audience that might identify most strongly with the family and to lead them to salvation.

41. Vincent, “Dramatic Aspect,” 531.

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  109 The Bride As I have pointed out, the bride’s role is developed considerably in the “translation” of the Life from the Latin Vita (although the Vita also clearly considers her an important figure), as it is in the iconography of the St. Albans Psalter.42 She is present when Alexis’s vocation is revealed to him, she is shown awaiting his return during the thirty-four years of his absence, and she enjoys with her husband their heavenly reward. Although they spend their lives physically apart, they are partners in a common enterprise of holiness. In her reaction to Alexis’s actions, in her fidelity and unswerving belief in the goodness of her husband, she shows us how we are to understand Alexis’s story. As Uitti points out in his discussion of the bride’s importance, “She provides the essential rhetorical key to the reader’s participation in the very human situations that emerge from the fact of Alexis’ saintliness.”43 The bride, who also remains unnamed, makes a brave decision on her wedding night. We know that she is the daughter of a noble Roman who loves her dearly. Her marriage is unconsummated, and she is left behind by her new husband. She would have every right to return home to her parents—to the comfort of her own place. She does not do so, but rather remains with Alexis’s parents for the rest of her life. In this way she mirrors Alexis’s exile: he detaches himself from his home, and she from hers. Uitti notes that “her fidelity may be construed as a counterpart to his askesis.”44 Even more significantly for my purposes, both characters articulate their vocation (askesis and fidelity) through a certain relationship to space. Alexis must detach himself from the values of place; the bride leaves her home and makes his place her own. The bride is reminiscent of the biblical figure of Ruth, who re42. Cf. Kendrick, “1123? Manuscripts,” 29. 43. Uitti, “Old French Vie,” 282. For this discussion, see 281–92. 44. Ibid., 284.

110  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis mained with her mother-in-law, Naomi, even after her husband’s death. When Naomi entreats Ruth to return to her mother’s house and find a new husband, Ruth clings to her, saying, “Entreat me not to leave you or to return from following you; for where you go I will go, and where you lodge I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God” (Ruth 1:16).45 In a similar fashion, the bride joins her grieving mother-in-law, sitting with her on the ground: Del duel s’asist la medre jus a terre, Si fist la spuse danz Alexis a certes. “Dama,” dist ele, “jo i ai si grant perte, Ore vivrai an guise de turtrele; Quant n’ai tun filz, ansembl’ ot tei voil estra” (vv. 146-50)

In grief the mother sat down on the ground, so did the wife of Lord Alexis without hesitation. “Lady,” she said, “I have such a great loss, henceforth I will live as a turtledove; since I don’t have your son, together with you I want to be.”

Besides creating a new place for herself through her fidelity to her mother-in-law, the bride also emulates Alexis by taking a seat on the ground. By integrating herself into Alexis’s place, she expresses the reality of her marriage to him.46 Her determined, almost radi45. “Noli instare mihi, ut relinquam te et abeam; quocumque perrexeris, pergam; ubi morata fueris, et ego pariter morabor: populus tuus populus meus et Deus tuus Deus meus” 46. As I have indicated, the marriage between Alexis and his bride is willfully sustained by both the saint and his wife, as their joyful reunion in heaven shows. In his book on medieval marriage, Christopher Brooke highlights a current of medieval thought that held that the unconsummated marriage was a sign of great piety. He quotes the twelfthcentury theologian Hugh of St. Victor, who wrote that the marriage of Mary and Joseph “illustrates perfectly that marriage is contracted by consent and not by consummation” ( J. Leclercq, Monks on Marriage: A Twelfth-Century View [New York: Seabury Press, 1982], 25; quoted by Christopher N. L. Brooke, The Medieval Idea of Marriage [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989], 54). This perspective on marriage calls to mind, as Brooke points out, the twelfthcentury Church reformer Peter Damian’s strong distaste for the sexual act, indeed for marriage. Brooke quotes one of Damian’s sermons to this effect, noting, “Significantly, the

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  111 cal faithfulness to her husband finds an echo in the Song of Roland’s Aude, who dies when she hears of the death of her fiancé Roland. Like Aude, the bride refuses to make a new life—a new place—for herself without her beloved. Perhaps most significantly, as Uitti points out, the bride acts as a representative of the place of Rome in which the sainthood of Alexis is fulfilled. She is identified solely as the daughter of a Roman count; she shares Alexis’s belonging to the nobility of Rome, but unlike her husband, this belonging is not problematic for her. On the contrary, it is imperative that her connection to Rome be preserved. Uitti writes, “The figure of the bride embodies, in a purposefully unabstract way, through her double and special connection to both Alexis and her city, the effective relationship Alexis, as saint, establishes between his God and his people.”47 As Alexis bridges the gap between his city and God, and between the ancients and the French audience, the bride acts as a bridge between the old Rome, fled by her husband, and new Rome, transformed by his sainthood. It is important to remember that not only has the bride remained faithful to Alexis, but Alexis has, in the context of his complete devotion to God, also remained faithful to her. On their wedding night, he confides in her, thus including her in his mission. In this sense, she makes the journey alongside him. She is the part of him who maintains a connection to Rome while he strives for union with God, thus perhaps facilitating his eventual reintegration into place.

The Place of a Saint: Alexis The question of what place means to Alexis is a difficult one. The saint’s ties to Rome are undeniable, but in life he must guard context was a sermon on St. Alexius; and Damian goes on to describe how Alexius abandoned his wife on their wedding-day” (73). As Uitti has also noted, “The situation is not without certain Catharistic overtones” (“Old French Vie,” 282). These perspectives help to contextualize the Life; at any rate, there can be no doubt that the marriage of Alexis and his bride is based on a most heartfelt consent, and is therefore perhaps an example of the true, but unconsummated marriages of which Brooke writes. 47. Uitti, “Old French Vie,” 284.

112  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis against becoming overly attached to this place. He must separate himself from the bonds of home as soon as he understands his calling; in many ways, his saintly geste is about this separation. His goal of achieving union with God is seen as antithetical to place, at least in life. Scholars have noted the relevance of a passage of the Gospel of St. Matthew for a study of the Life. Do not think that I have come to bring peace on the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughterin-law against her mother-in-law; and a man’s foes will be those of his own household. He who loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and he who loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me.48 (Matthew 10:34–37)

These words place holiness and sainthood in direct contradiction with the notion of linage, as Vine Durling49 and Gerard Gouiran50 have pointed out. In other words, it is difficult for a person to become holy while remaining attached to the values of place. At the same time, a saint’s life can be relevant only insomuch as it is meaningful for other human beings; if the example of the saint’s life does not encourage others to lead a holy life, then it has no purpose. The denial of place inherent in a saint’s life must be embedded in a larger affirmation of place, because place is part of God’s Creation. In Christian thought, this “contradiction” is also present in Christ’s life: 48. “Nolite arbitrari quia venerim mittere pacem in terram; non veni pacem mittere sed gladium. Veni enim separare hominem adversus patrem suum et filiam adversus matrem suam et nurum adversus socrum suam: et inimici hominis domestici eius. Qui amat patrem aut matrem plus quam me, non est me dignus; et, qui amat filium aut filiam super me, non est me dignus.” 49. Vine Durling alludes to Augustine’s interesting and plausible allegorical exegesis of this passage in Quaestiones septemdecim in Evangelium secundum Matthaeum, iii (“Hagiography and Lineage,” 451). 50. Gérard Gouiran, “Les Saints et leurs familles dans les vies de saints occitanes,” Les Relations de parenté dans le monde médiéval, Senefiance 26 (1989): 471–86.

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  113 while his kingdom is not of this world ( John 18:36), he becomes embodied and implaced because God so loved the world ( John 3:16). Maddox notes the importance of the ideals of pilgrimage in inspiring Alexis’s journey but also its resemblance to “the essentially circular contour of the mythic quest.”51 It is this latter resemblance that leads scholars such as Duncan Robertson to call the Life a “hagiographical romance.”52 Especially in its first stage, Alexis’s journey is driven as much by the bonds of place that he is attempting to escape as by the spiritual goal that constitutes the object of his “quest.” His first words of direct discourse express this impetus well: “ ‘E! Deus!’ dist il, ‘cum fort pecét m’apresset! / S’or ne m’en fui, mult criem que ne t’em perde’ ” (“ ‘Such strong sin oppresses me! / If I don’t flee now, I fear greatly that I might lose you’ ” [vv. 59–60]). After the speech to his bride, his next words are spoken in Edessa when his reputation as a holy man begins to spread, and they articulate the same fear of entanglement: “ ‘Certes,’ dist il, ‘n’i ai mais ad ester, / D’icest’ honur nem revoil ancumbrer’ ” (“ ‘Certainly, he said, ‘I have to be here no longer, / with this honor I do not want to encumber myself again’ ” [vv. 187–88]). Like the first time, these words directly precede his flight from a place which threatens to bind him. Of the four main characters, Alexis speaks the least, and most of his words express his struggle to extricate himself from place. After the revelation of his calling, Alexis makes several purposeful choices in the fulfillment of his sainthood. First, he decides to flee his parents’ home. God’s will brings him to Laodicea; then, he chooses to go to the imagine. When the statue calls to him, he flees again. He is brought to Rome through no will of his own. Once there, he elects to ask his father for shelter, even designating 51. “Pilgrimage Narrative,” 149. According to Maddox, this circularity is more heavily emphasized in ms L. L stresses the saint’s role as an intercessory saint for Rome, the end point of his circular trajectory. 52. Duncan Robertson, The Medieval Saints’ Lives: Spiritual Renewal and Old French Literature, The Edward C. Armstrong Monographs on Medieval Literature 8 (Lexington, Ky.: French Forum: 1995), 200–252.

114  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis the place under the staircase, which, we imagine, he knows well. Before dying, he decides to write his story down. We can see in this sequence a pattern which alternates Alexis’s deliberate choices with unwilled developments. There are, essentially, two repeated movements of choosing (leaving home, leaving Edessa), surrendering to God’s will (being taken to Laodicea, then later to Rome), and then choosing again within that context (seeking out the statue, requesting lodging of Eufemian). The last decision, to write his story down, stands independent of these two movements. It calls our attention to the Life as a written story and, perhaps, calls upon the audience to take up the pursuit of holiness. This give-and-take between human and divine will shows that even a saint must struggle to know God’s will for him. The Life contains one instance of Alexis “misreading” God’s will: we are told that he plans to remain in Edessa for his entire life, but God wills it otherwise: “Quant tut sun quor en ad si afermét / Que ja, sum voil, n’istrat de la citied, / Deus fist l’imagine pur sue amur parler” (“When he has firm in his heart / that never, of his will, shall he go from the city, / God made the statue speak for love of him” [vv. 166–68, emphasis added]). But what is God’s will here? He makes the statue call Alexis to come to her, because “Il est dignes d’entrer en paradis” (“He is worthy of entering paradise” [v. 173]). If Alexis is worthy of entering heaven at this time, then why does he spend another seventeen years in Rome? Does Alexis obey the summons of the statue? (The narrator tells us only that the altar servant goes to him, and “fait l’el muster venir” [“has him come to the church” (v. 181)].) If so, what does she tell him? If not, is he not guilty of disobedience? This ambiguity serves to illustrate the difficulty for human beings, who are endowed with free will, to know and fulfill God’s will. This is a pivotal moment in the story, one in which Alexis’s will is evoked twice (the statue also attests to his desire to stay nearby, saying “Par nule guise ne s’en volt esluiner” [“In no way does he want to distance himself from it” (v. 180)]). He wants to remain in this place, he is worthy of heaven, and yet, he leaves to return home.

The Old French Vie de saint Alexis  115 Perhaps his seventeen years in exile have prepared Alexis for heaven, and his time in Rome serves a different purpose. As I have noted, Alexis’s return to Rome is the most unique characteristic of his tale. How are we to interpret this long sojourn under his parents’ staircase, this daily but unrecognized contact with his family? As a saint, Alexis understands God’s will more completely than most people. At the close of his time in Edessa, his place in heaven is ready, but his family in Rome still does not comprehend what has happened to Alexis and to them. In returning to live among them, it is perhaps not his heavenly belonging but theirs that he must prepare. His saintly vocation precludes him from revealing his identity to his family while alive. However, by writing a letter, he tells them that he was there to witness their suffering. While Alexis could not reveal his identity to them without compromising his saintly vocation, his decision to live with them was a sign of his love, to be understood only after his death. Upon learning the truth, they could reread the past thirty-four years in the light of this truth, and understand that he had not abandoned them.53 He had been with them the only way he could. Alexis’s letter is, of course, the key to this revelation of the truth. Many scholars, such as Uitti and Vine Durling, have written persuasively on the subject of the letter and its transmission by a learned clerk, and I could add little of value to these excellent studies.54 I wish to emphasize here only the letter’s restorative role. It is important to note that Alexis would have been a saint whether or not he wrote the letter. He would even have been recognized as l’ume Deu by Rome, because the voice leads them to him before the letter is read. The letter, more than anything else, is written for his fami53. Once again, this notion of rereading, and finally understanding, a painful past in the light of a belatedly revealed truth reminds us of King Mark in Tristan and Iseut. This similarity is yet another example of the frequent parallels between medieval hagiography and romance. 54. Uitti, “Old French Vie”; Vine Durling, “Hagiography and Lineage”; and Robertson, Medieval Saints’ Lives.

116  The Old French Vie de saint Alexis ly. Initially, Alexis’s family reacts sorrowfully to the truth revealed by Alexis’s letter, as is to be expected. We do not see how they live out the rest of their lives, except that they remained together until death; we can imagine, however, the consolation brought by the truth. They could understand Alexis’s actions in light of his sainthood, finally seeing their place in God’s plan, instead of struggling blindly as before to make sense out of the incomprehensible. Alexis’s letter fills the void he created in their place when he left, restoring it to a new, transformed meaning.

2  La Chanson de Roland At first glance, a warrior would appear to be quite different from a saint such as Alexis. War involves a resolute engagement with the real spaces of this world and the values attached to them. Alexis would surely have considered such engagement antithetical to his saintly calling. Roland, however, must strategize, fight, kill, and die in order to ensure his lord’s sovereignty over certain spaces. In other words, his role and his destiny are very much of this world. In reality, however, despite their extremely different earthly vocations, Roland and Saint Alexis are remarkably similar characters. This similarity appears especially clear when one considers them in the light of spatiality and place. As we saw in the previous chapter, Alexis is characterized by a dichotomous relationship to space. On the one hand, his connection to his space of origins, Rome, is so strong that the entire city mourns his death; and yet, he steadfastly refuses any emotional attachment to home. As we will see, Roland shares this paradoxical combination of connection and estrangement. In the Old French Life of Saint Alexis, the different significations associated with the space of Rome (place) overshadow considerably the narrative role of space (spatiality). The unmistakable focus of this hagiographical poem is the life of a man and the fulfillment of his saint-

117

118  La Chanson de Roland ly calling. Conversely, space plays an explicit role in the Song of Roland’s narrative; indeed, many die in order to ensure sovereignty over space. Roland, in many ways, is about space—how to defend it; how to conquer it—and surely no one would read the poem without realizing that France, Spain, Saragossa, and Roncevaux are important to its interpretation. Yet both the Life of Saint Alexis and the Song of Roland tell the story of a man who, in order to realize his calling, must leave his home and travel to foreign lands. The respective vocations of Alexis and Roland are inextricably linked to displacement in space. This similarity represents only the surface of a profound likeness between the two men. By exploring in this chapter the many facets of spatiality and place in the Song of Roland, I hope to arrive at a clearer understanding of the affinity shared by Alexis and Roland, in both its parities and its variations. This understanding will, in turn, provide a foundation for the study of spatiality and place in the legend of Tristan and Iseut. Scholarship on the Song of Roland is plentiful, and some has dealt with topics similar or tangential to mine. Eugene Vance takes as I do the premise that spatial settings serve the content of the poem significantly, noting “the tendency of the poet of the Chanson de Roland to take spatial relationships as a profound metaphor for the structure of man’s moral life.”1 The current study expands upon the observations made by Vance. Joseph Bédier, Prosper Boissonade, Robert Fawtier, René Louis, and Ramón Menéndez Pidal have explored the origins, in spatial terms, of the poem, attempting to establish connections between the poem and the real sites of Roncevaux.2 John Allen, Howard Bloch, and Alice Planche have examined the family 1. Eugene Vance, “Spatial Structure in the Chanson de Roland,” Modern Language Notes 82, no. 5 (1967): 604–23, quotation on 622. 2. See Joseph Bédier, Les Légendes épiques, 4 vols. (Paris: Champion, 1908–13, 1914– 21); Prosper Boissonade, Du nouveau sur la Chanson de Roland (Paris: Champion, 1923); Robert Fawtier, La Chanson de Roland, étude historique (Paris: Boccard, 1933); René Louis, “Le site des combats de Roncevaux dans La Chanson de Roland,” in Studi in Onore di Angelo Monteverdi, ed. Giuseppina Gerardi Marcuzzo et al. (Modena: STEM, 1959), 466–93;

La Chanson de Roland  119 structures described in the poem, but without connecting them to the related notion of place.3 Still others, such as Hans-Erich Keller, Karl Uitti, and Vance (in a later article) have situated the Song of Roland within the context of a poetics of French national memory.4 But to my knowledge, we do not yet have an in-depth study of spatiality and the human relationship to place as they are poeticized in this fundamental work. All of the above topics are meaningfully enhanced by such an examination. In the first part of this chapter, I will concentrate on Roland’s spatiality, including a detailed spatial analysis of two vital scenes: the attack on the rearguard at Roncevaux and Charlemagne’s final battle with the Saracen king, Baligant. These two scenes demonstrate how spatiality can subtly communicate meaning in a text without necessarily passing through the intermediary of a character or narrator’s voice. Next, I will examine place in the poem. My emphasis in this section will be on Roland himself. However, I will also question how other characters belong to place, thereby shedding light on Roland’s specificity.

and Ramón Menéndez Pidal, La Chanson de Roland et la tradition épique des Francs, trans. Irénée-Marcel Cluzel (Paris: Picard, 1960). 3. John R. Allen, “Kinship in the Chanson de Roland,” in Jean Misrahi Memorial Volume: Studies in Medieval Literature, ed. Hans R. Runte, Henri Niedzielski, and William L. Hendrickson (Columbia, S.C.: French Literature Publications, 1977), 34–45; R. Howard Bloch, “Roland and Oedipus: A Study of Paternity in La Chanson de Roland,” French Review 46 (Spring 1973): 3–18; Alice Planche, “Roland, fils de personne. Les structures de la parenté du héros dans le manuscrit d’Oxford,” in Charlemagne et l’épopée romane: Actes du VIIe Congrès international de la Société Rencesvals, Liège, 28 août–4 septembre 1976 (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1978), 497–520. 4. Hans-Erich Keller, “La Chanson de Roland, poème de propagande pour le royaume capétien du milieu du XIIe siècle,” Travaux de linguistique et de literature 14 (1976): 229–41; Karl D. Uitti, Story, Myth, and Celebration in Old French Narrative Poetry, 1050–1200 (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1973); Uitti, “‘Ço dit la geste’: Reflections on the Poetic Restoration of History in The Song of Roland,” in Studies in Honor of Hans-Erich Keller, ed. Rupert T. Pickens (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications of Western Michigan University, 1993), 1–27; Uitti, “Alexis, Roland, and French ‘Poésie nationale,’ ” Comparative Literature Studies 32, no. 2 (1995): 131–50; Eugene Vance, “Roland et la poétique de la mémoire,” in Épopées, légendes et miracles (Montréal: Bellarmin, 1974), 103–15.

120  La Chanson de Roland

The Spatial Framework Spain, Saragossa, and France The spatial framework set up in the first laisse of the Song of Roland is crucial to an understanding of the entire poem. It begins by evoking not a place but a person, Charlemagne, “Carles li reis, nostre emperere magnes” (“The mighty Charles, our emperor and king” [v. 1]).5 This first line succeeds nonetheless in clearly identifying a place of belonging: first, by naming Charlemagne, a personage so exemplary that he embodies the space of his empire; second, by using the possessive pronoun nostre, which links the narrator, Charlemagne, his people, and the poem’s audience into a collective we attached to the here-space of Charlemagne’s empire. Rather than allowing the narrative to settle into this space, the narrator immediately disturbs this reassuring identification of a we and a here with a troubling there: “Set anz tuz pleins ad estet en Espaigne” (“Has been in Spain for seven long years” [v. 2]). The narrative proceeds from this foreign space, slightly less worrisome because it has been conquered and assimilated by Charlemagne (“Tresqu’en la mer cunquist la tere altaigne, / N’i ad castel ki devant lui remaigne. / Mur ne citet n’i est remés a fraindre” (“He has conquered that haughty land right to the sea, / No fortress can resist him. / No walls, no city remains to be smashed” [vv. 3–5]), to the space that represents, in its stubborn and dangerous resistance, the crux of the whole poem: “Fors Sarraguce, ki est en une muntaigne” (“Except Saragossa, which is on a mountaintop” [v. 6]). After naming the city of Saragossa, sole resister to Charles’s rule, we are told why Saragossa is a problem: “Li reis Marsilie la tient, ki Deu nen aimet, / Mahumet sert e Apollin recleimet” (“King Marsile, who does not love God, defends it, / He serves Mohammed and prays to Apollo” [vv. 7–8]). In the laisse’s last 5. All citations and translations of the Song of Roland refer to Gerard J. Brault’s edition of the Oxford Digby 23 manuscript, except where noted. The Song of Roland: An Analytical Edition, 2 vols. (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1978).

La Chanson de Roland  121 line, the city’s fate is made clear: “Nes poet guarder que mals ne l’i ateignet” (“He cannot prevent misfortune from befalling him there” [v. 9]). One cannot overemphasize the weighty importance of these two words, fors Sarraguce—“except Saragossa”—opening the line and following upon the refrain evoking Charles’s Spanish conquests, which will be repeated time and again. These words make clear that the key to the story that is about to unravel is a place. In all of Spain, Saragossa is the only space that remains unclaimed for God. “Saragossa” derives from the Latin Caesar Augustus, and the imperial overtones of the name establish a binary opposition with Aix, the capital of Charlemagne’s empire (the first of many binarisms that structure the Song of Roland). The unconquered Saragossa, along with the numerous evocations of space in the first laisse (Espaigne, la mer, la tere, castel, citet, muntaigne) serve to signal the enormous importance of space in the poem. Roland will be the only one of Charlemagne’s knights to grasp this importance and urge the king to conquer Saragossa before returning to France. The first laisse also tells us that, in a sense, the events of the Song of Roland represent an epilogue, a sort of post-adventure. The poem’s prehistory—the conquering of a diverse space that contained sea and mountains, castles and cities—must have contained many heroic deeds, but these are now behind Charlemagne and his peers. Yet, the poem begins as the victorious Franks are reaching the end of their conquests and turning their thoughts toward home. This epilogue-like quality of the poem finds an echo in Roland’s position in the rearguard of Charlemagne’s army and in the fact that the attack comes only after the Franks think that their task has ended. In Roland, what is important comes after the supposed end of the story. We see this dynamic played out in a potentially continuous series of events occurring post finem: the battle at Roncevaux takes place after the Spanish conquests; the conquest of Saragossa by Charles occurs after Roncevaux; Ganelon’s punishment is coura-

122  La Chanson de Roland geously achieved by Thierry after the conquest; and, in the very last laisse of the poem, Charles receives the call to succor Christendom in the land of Bire just after Ganelon’s trial. In this way, Roland enacts structurally the necessity of what Karl Uitti has called an “ongoing geste.” It is a Saracen, Blancandrin, who first mentions the Franks’ imminent return home: “L’ost des Franceis verrez sempres desfere. / Francs s’en irunt en France, la lur tere” (“You’ll see the French army disband at once. / The Franks will return to France, their land” [vv. 49–50]). In fact, when we first see Charles and his army in the eighth laisse, they are celebrating their successful siege against Cordres and their Christianization of the city. No mention is made of their desire to return to France until Blancandrin himself, sent to Charles as Marsile’s messenger, suggests it to them: “En cest païs avez estet asez, / En France, ad Ais, devez bien repairer” (“You have been in this country long enough, / You should go back home to Aix, in France” [vv. 134–35]). Coming after seven years of war, these words are perhaps the most cunning weapon the enemy could use against the Franks. As their ready agreement (with the exception of Roland) makes clear, they long to return to dulce France (“sweet France”), their home. Thus, the poem begins on a note of closure drawn too hastily: vulnerably suspended between two spaces (space of lands to be conquered and space of home) and two stories (Charles’s Spanish conquest and the triumphant return home), the Franks, Charlemagne included, are easily lured into the false sense of completion encouraged by their enemy. Indeed, it is Saragossa and its king, Marsile, who initiate the poem’s action. After the introductory first laisse, we are brought immediately to Saragossa: “Li reis Marsilie esteit en Sarraguce” (“King Marsile was in Saragossa” [v. 10]). The story’s impetus comes, thus, from within the space of the enemy. (The end of the poem, which portrays Charles receiving the archangel Gabriel’s summons to fight the pagans besieging Bire, echoes this opening call to action from

La Chanson de Roland  123 abroad.) Of the poem’s 291 laisses, only the last 25 take place within the territory that has been called dulce France throughout the poem. 267 laisses—almost the entire poem—locate their action spatially within what is, for the Franks, foreign territory. Roland is in many ways a story of homecoming: of the desire for home and of what needs to be accomplished in order to return well. Indeed, the values associated with dulce France inform the entire story. Yet it is in foreign lands, not home, that the story takes place. In the tension created by these two incontestable and yet remarkably opposed poetic and spatial structures—the overarching pull of home inscribed almost completely within foreign space—we find one of Roland’s most striking characteristics. This tension has several important repercussions on our understanding of the poem. First of all, as the laisse count shows, the Song of Roland’s “real” spatiality is almost exclusively in Spain, which makes this a tale of displacement for the Franks, in addition to being the story of the Battle of Roncevaux. Their return, decided very close to the beginning of the poem, is delayed for over two hundred laisses because, essentially, one crucial matter was left undone: the capture of Saragossa. Once this matter is accomplished, the return is easy and uneventful, and the Franks travel from Saragossa to Aix in a single laisse (laisse 267). While the Franks are physically located in Spain throughout most of the poem, their minds and hearts are focused on dulce France and their imminent homecoming. (As we shall see, even in the heat of battle, the thought of France is a driving force behind their actions.) Inversely, their physical presence in France will be very brief. In this way, the story records a fundamental disjunction between physical location and inner thoughts on two levels: that of the characters and that of the story itself. Both, in a sense, have their bodies in Spain and their hearts in France. A third consequence of these opposing spatial structures is to imply, simply but imperatively, that space is a powerful force in the

124  La Chanson de Roland Song of Roland. As I emphasized above, the poem’s plot hinges on a fundamental miscalculation about the value of Saragossa. Saragossa’s importance, as well as the weight of foreign space in a poem that has often been described as an épopée nationale, urge us to question what this other-space means. Why is it important? How do Charles and the Franks misunderstand what is at stake in Saragossa? For Ganelon’s betrayal was only possible after the Franks decided to return home without conquering the city. We must take into account this other-space for its concrete omnipresence in the text, but we must also consider how the home space of France infuses the imaginations, memories, and actions of the Frankish soldiers.

The Spaces of Three Kings The poem’s action opens with Marsile in Saragossa, discussing the threat to his lands posed by Charlemagne and his army. As will often be the case for discussions among kings and their advisers, whether Charlemagne, Marsile, or Baligant, Marsile holds his council in a garden. A comparison of the spatial framework of Marsile’s council with that of Charles’s celebratory gathering with his knights in laisse 8 reveals several significant differences. Only Marsile’s position is described in laisse 2, where he is shown lying on a block of blue marble, “un perrun de marbre bloi” (“on a blue marble slab” [v. 12]).6 No details are provided concerning the landscape or Marsile’s 6. This detail of the gray marble block not only stands in contrast with Charles’s throne of pure gold, but also sheds light on a detail of Roland’s death scene. Roland, we are told, falls in a place where four marble blocks stand (“Quatre perruns i ad, de marbre faiz” [v. 2268]). It is shortly after this, and in the same location, that Roland attempts to break his sword, Durendal, on three of these rocks (“une perre brune” [v. 2300], “el perrun de sardonie” [v. 2312], “une perre bise” [2338]). The marble blocks create a link between Roland’s death and Marsile’s position lying on a block in this first scene. The fact that Roland unsuccessfully tries to break Durendal on three of the four blocks, all of which have specific colors but none of which is “bloi,” as was Marsile’s, makes us wonder: Does this signal that Roland’s enemies—not only Marsile but all potential enemies—still live, and that the task he worked to achieve remains incomplete? Is this why he is unable to break his sword? At any rate, the detail of the marble blocks forges a strong connection between Roland’s death and Marsile, his enemy, a connection reinforced by Roland’s symbolic turning of his head toward Spain as he dies.

La Chanson de Roland  125 advisers. In laisse 8, the position of Charles’s knights is described first, “Sur palies blancs siedent cil cevaler” (“The knights are sitting on white silk cloths” [v. 110]) and that of Charles himself second, “Un faldestoed i unt, fait tut d’or mer” (“A throne of purest gold has been placed” [v. 115]). The whiteness of the blankets finds an echo in Charles’s white beard, “Blanche ad la barbe” (“His beard is white” [v. 117]), showing harmony among the king and his knights. In addition, the surroundings are depicted in detail: the knights are entertaining themselves, playing chess, fencing; and the emperor and his advisers are seated “Desuz un pin, delez un eglenter” (“Beneath a pine tree, next to an eglantine” [v. 114]). The relative poverty of the illustration of Marsile’s environment and advisers underscores his unworthiness as an opponent and as leader, qualities we will soon discover. They also serve to accentuate Charles’s goodness and the participatory nature of his realm: his knights quite literally hold a place in Charles’s court and, indeed, even come first in order of description. These qualities are reiterated more explicitly in laisses 11 and 12, which tell of Charles’s council to deliberate Marsile’s offer of peace. Here, the spatial framework is one of utter simplicity: Charles holds his council under a pine tree. No mention is made of either throne or blanket, and it seems reasonable to assume that everyone is seated, because we are told that Roland, Ganelon, and other knights stand up to speak. The narrator even specifies that Charles wishes to follow the Franks in all things: “Par cels de France voelt il del tut errer” (“He wishes to be guided by the men of France in this entire matter” [v. 167]). In addition to emphasizing the nonhierarchical nature of Charles’s court, this informal gathering, without props of any Another symbolic connection is made between Marsile and Roland in laisse 47’s description of a throne at Marsile’s court: “Un faldestoed i out d’un olifant” (v. 609). The throne recalls Roland’s olifant which, along with Durendal, is not only strongly identified with the protagonist, but also becomes a sort of weapon against the Saracens when Roland uses it to call Charlemagne and his army. Significantly, the narrator deliberately neglects to show Marsile seated on the throne, or even to state that it belongs to him: this king is unworthy of such a noble position.

126  La Chanson de Roland sort, also communicates an important change in the Franks’ attitude toward the space they are occupying. The suggestion made by the Saracens—that Charles give up his war and return to France—has already had an effect. The Franks’ ties to this foreign space are perhaps already beginning to loosen. The simple and highly mobile setup of their council, compared with the more elaborate structure of the previous day, reflects this loosening. One could be tempted to believe that this disparity in the spatial descriptions of Marsile’s and Charles’s respective councils simply serves to emphasize, in Manichean fashion, the righteousness of the Christian cause and the evil of the Saracens. However, a study of the description of the Saracen Baligant’s council in laisses 192–93 shows that this dissimilitude is not a simple dichotomy. In contrast with the environment of the first Saracen king, the landscape surrounding Baligant’s council is quite detailed. It is a beautiful, sunny day; Baligant’s ivory throne is installed on top of a white blanket laid down on green grass in the shade of a laurel tree (“un palie blanc” [“white silk cloth” (v. 2652)], like the one upon which Charles’s knights sat). Furthermore, one knight is described as walking on Baligant’s right, and seventeen kings follow him—details that give his entourage a certain importance. Yet, the narrative also specifies that while he sits on his throne, all others remain standing (v. 2655). Thus, Baligant and Charles are portrayed in similar terms and as comparable leaders (an idea explicitly pronounced in the narrator’s exclamation about Baligant, “Deus! quel baron, s’oüst chrestïentet!” (“God! What a brave knight, if only he were a Christian!” [v. 3164]). Both are contrasted with the ignoble Marsile, yet one main difference distinguishes the two kings as early as these council scenes. This difference resides in the position granted to their respective knights and vassals. As I noted above, Charles’s twelve peers and knights are not only presented as equal to one another (the word “peer” and their common seated position express this idea), but also as valued counterparts to the emperor himself (they sit on their blankets while he

La Chanson de Roland  127 sits on his throne). Baligant, on the other hand, sits while his entire entourage stands. In this way, the spatiality of these three council scenes serves to communicate, without any explicit juxtaposition or confrontation of the three leaders, several significant messages regarding their respective qualities. In similar fashion, Charles’s courtesy is signified by the hospitality he offers to the ten Saracen messengers sent to him by Marsile in laisse 11. Throughout the poem, messengers are sent from one king to another; this is the only occasion in which the messengers of the enemy are given lodging and hospitality for the night. Besides acting as a sign of Charles’s courtesy, the presence of the Saracens also tells us that the enemy has already begun to infiltrate the Frankish camp through their duplicitous plans. Indeed, in a touch of irony, it is likely that they are lodged at the very same spot that held Charles’s victory celebration the day before: the text tells us that “El grant verger fait li reis tendre un tref ” (“The king has a tent pitched in the great garden” [v. 159]) to house the messengers, while the celebration was also held in “un grant verger” (v. 103). This Saracen presence within the camp, just before the decision is made to send Ganelon as an ambassador to Marsile, can also be seen as a metaphor for Ganelon himself, the traitor among their ranks. In laisses 11 and 12, I argued, the simple description of the emperor’s position during his council connoted a loosening of his ties to Spain. In effect, departures and mobility are facilitated by a simple and temporary camp set-up. This same tendency to be poised for mobility progresses in laisse 54, following upon Ganelon’s return to the Frankish camp after devising his betrayal with Marsile. Here are the lines describing the spatial establishment of the first council in laisse 11: “Li empereres est par matin levet, / Messe e matines ad li reis escultet. / Desuz un pin en est li reis alez” (“The emperor rose early in the morning, / The king heard mass and matins. / The king went beneath a pine tree” [vv. 163–65]). Now laisse 54: “Li empereres est par matin levet. / Messe e matines ad li reis escultet, / Sur

128  La Chanson de Roland l’erbe verte estut devant sun tref ” (“The emperor rose early in the morning. / The king hears mass and matins, / He stood before his tent on the green grass” [vv. 669–71]). The two passages vary only in their third line. In the first passage, Charles displaces himself in order to hold council; in the second, he stands on the grass directly outside his tent. Besides the use of the word tref, which connotes the nomadic life led by the Frankish warriors, Charles’s position in this passage reflects his strong desire to be on his way. Although his knights are there with him, he does not consult with them, nor does he take a moment’s reflection; he declares, “Gracïet en seit Deus!” (“Thank God!” [v. 698]) and, almost immediately, “Franc desherbergent” (“The Franks break camp” [v. 701]). The rapidity of this process, which takes only one laisse from the emperor’s awakening at dawn to the departure for France in the last line, “Vers dulce France tuit sunt achiminez” (“All have taken the road for fair France” [v. 702]), bears witness yet again to the Franks’ eagerness to return home and also perhaps to their lack of prudence in deciding their return so hastily. The various councils between kings and their advisers demonstrate that spatial context plays an important role in decisionmaking. A grave decision, in order to be well made, must be deliberated within a space of a certain permanence and stability. The text indicates this connection between space and decision-making on several occasions, consistently describing the surroundings in which councils take place. The poem begins on a note of immobility, with both Marsile’s and Charlemagne’s councils taking place in wellestablished and stable spatial contexts (as connoted by thrones, blankets, game playing, etc.). As the action progresses, however, decisions are made more and more “on the run,” and the text is filled with a sense of increasing momentum. As we saw in laisse 54, Charles’s hasty decision to return home is made within a spatial context of nomadic instability. When the stasis necessary for proper decision-making is neglected and a “mobile decision” is made, this

La Chanson de Roland  129 mobility suggests that the decision is not being given proper reflection and has in fact already been made in the decision-maker’s mind. In this way, Charlemagne and the Franks are posed for a rapid departure and barely stop to listen to Ganelon before raising camp. In a similar manner, Ganelon does not even pause or dismount upon meeting the Saracen messengers, and he and Blancandrin plot to kill Roland while riding toward Saragossa in laisses 28–31: “Tant chevalcherent Guenes e Blancandrins / Que l’un a l’altre la sue feit plevit / Que il querreient que Rollant fust ocis” (“Ganelon and Blancandrin rode on, / Eventually they gave each other their word / That they would find a way to have Roland killed” [vv. 402–4]). In this way, we can see that the instable spatialization of certain events or decisions is no coincidence but rather reveals their fundamental unsoundness. Before Ganelon arrives to announce to the Franks the false news of Marsile’s surrender, we are told that Charles is approaching his “repaire,” or country from which one has been absent: “Li empereres aproismet sun repaire” (v. 661). This chronological incoherence suggests that Charles has already begun his return home, in mind if not in body. With this premature return is juxtaposed Ganelon’s movement towards the Frankish camp. After having planned Roland’s demise with the Saracen enemy, Ganelon hurries to return: “Guenes respunt: ‘Mei est vis que trop targe!’ / Pois est munted, entret en sun veiage” (“Ganelon replies, ‘I think I’m wasting time!’ / Then he mounted up, he begins his return voyage” [vv. 659–60]). As Ganelon literally “enters into his path,” Charlemagne thinks forward to France. Ironically, both have the same goal of a quick return home, but while Ganelon is aware of the catastrophe to follow, Charlemagne remains ignorant. After describing this mutual movement of Ganelon and Charlemagne, the narration marks a pause in which Roland’s conquests are remembered. Laisse 53 continues as follows: Li empereres aproismet sun repaire, Venuz en est a la citet de Galne.

130  La Chanson de Roland Li quens Rollant, il l’ad e prise e fraite, Puis icel jur en fut cent anz deserte (vv. 661–64)

The emperor is approaching his homeland, He came to the city of Galne. Count Roland captured and destroyed it. From that day forward, it remained deserted for a hundred years.

Thus, the spatial transformations taking place in laisses 52 and 53 skillfully situate the three characters in relation to one another: Ganelon is entering into his path of betrayal (the possessive adjective is significant here); Charles is approaching his long-awaited lands; Roland, although accompanying Charles momentarily, is represented through his past conquest of a city. Already before the Battle of Roncevaux and the song that celebrates his geste, Roland’s place is one of memory. As a counterpoint to the Song of Roland’s repeated reminders of dulce France, the poem includes subtle but insistent indications of a multiplicity of other spaces. These hints at the world’s spatial diversity expand and enrich Roland’s spatiality. Thus, the description of the Saracens from many lands that make up Marsile’s army alternates with the portrayal of Roland’s reaction to them in laisses 113–26. Even more detailed and diverse is the enumeration of the escheles, or battle corps, which form Baligant’s army in laisses 232–34. This emphasis on the “multinational” composition of the two Saracen armies underlines the ubiquity of the enemies of Christendom, highlighting the vulnerability faced by Charlemagne’s empire on all sides. Besides the Saracen escheles, two subtle incidents allude to enemies existing beyond the framework of this particular story. First, the poem’s ending portrays Charles’s dismay at being called to succor the Christians of Bire. At the outskirts of the world and, in this case, of the present story, Christianity is constantly threatened, and it is Charles’s role to respond to this threat. In an even more understated event, the narrator tells how Roland sends one of his men,

La Chanson de Roland  131 Gautier de l’Hum, to secure the narrow passages and hills that lie ahead of the Frankish army: Od mil Franceis de France, la lur tere, Gualter desrenget les destreiz e les tertres. N’en descendrat pur malvaises nuveles Enceis qu’en seient .VII.C. espees traites. Reis Almaris del regne de Belferne Une bataille lur livrat le jur pesme (vv. 808–13)

With a thousand Frenchmen from France, their land, Gautier leads a detachment through the mountain passes and elevations. He will not descend when the news is bad Before seven hundred swords have been drawn. King Almaris of the kingdom of Belferne Gave them a fierce battle that day.

We learn nothing more of Gautier’s battle, until he returns, defeated, in laisse 152: “A cels d’Espaigne mult s’i est cumbatuz, / Mort sunt si hume, sis unt paiens vencut” (“He has fought hard against the men of Spain, / His men are dead, the pagans have vanquished them” [vv. 2041–42]). Both of these episodes indicate that overcoming the threat posed by Saragossa and its defenders represents just one part of a much longer, greater story. The worldview sketched through the spatiality of the Song of Roland is hardly one of a homogeneous, dominant, and secure Christian empire. On the contrary, constant vigilance seems necessary, a fact that accentuates once more the wisdom inherent in Roland’s heroism as well as the foolhardiness inherent in the Franks’ sense of security at the beginning of the poem. In this section, I have examined several examples of how objective or “physical” aspects of spatial descriptions meaningfully enhance literary text. The respective spatial descriptions of Marsile’s, Charlemagne’s, and Baligant’s councils divulge a great deal about each king’s identity and role within the text, just as the spatial con-

132  La Chanson de Roland texts surrounding events often serve to enrich symbolically those events. Because these descriptions do not deal with space as it is experienced and felt by the poem’s characters (with place), but rather with space as background to the poem’s narrative, they can be categorized as spatiality. However, as we have seen, even such narrative space, when carefully read, adds interpretive layers to the poem. Thus, both spatiality and place participate in the construction of meaning, the former through spatial description, the latter through depictions of characters’ feelings about space. Nowhere is this meaningfulness of spatiality more apparent than in the two battle scenes of the poem. Roland’s battle against Marsile shares many characteristics with Charles’s battle against Baligant: both portray a Frankish hero battling a Saracen king in the name of God and of Christianity. Of course, as any reader of the Song of Roland knows, the two battles could not be more different. Yet, a simple question must be posed: How and why are they different? The two battles differ primarily in their spatial contexts.

The Spaces of Battle Laisse 55: A Spatial Reading After Charles decides to accept Marsile’s offer, conveyed by the traitor Ganelon, the Franks raise camp and begin their march toward France. Laisse 55, which describes the spatial configuration of the Franks as they begin their journey and of the Saracens who lie in wait, shows striking artistry in its poeticization of space, making it, in my mind, one of the most extraordinary laisses of the poem. 703 Carles li magnes ad Espaigne guastede, 704 Les castels pris, les citez violees. 705 Ço dit li reis que sa guere out finee, 706 Vers dulce France chevalchet l’emperere. 707 Li quens Rollant ad l’enseigne fermee, 708 En sum un tertre cuntre le ciel levee. 709 Franc se herbergent par tute la cuntree.

La Chanson de Roland  133 710 Paien chevalchent par cez greignurs valees, 711 Halbercs vestuz e ..... 712 Healmes lacez e ceintes lur espees, 713 Escuz as cols e lances adubees. 714 En un bruill par sum les puis remestrent. 715. IIII. C. milie atendent l’ajurnee. 716 Deus! quel dulur que li Franceis nel sevent! 703 Charles has laid waste to Spain, 704 Captured its fortresses, penetrated its citadels. 705 The king says that his war is over, 706 The emperor is riding toward fair France. 707 Count Roland has mounted the standard, 708 Raised it against the sky at the top of a hill. 709 The Franks bivouac throughout the countryside. 710 The pagans are riding through deep valleys, 711 Wearing hauberks and ..... 712 Helmets laced and swords at their sides, 713 Shields slung from their necks and lances with gonfanons attached. 714 They remain in a woods on top of the mountains. 715 Four hundred thousand await daybreak. 716 God! What a pity the Franks do not know it!

The laisse begins by marking one of the poem’s many pauses of memory, taking up the refrain-like reminder of Charles’s Spanish conquests. This pause slows down the momentum of the Franks’ swift preparation for departure, capturing the scene in a vivid still image. The king’s declaration that he has ended his war stands in stark contrast with Roland’s gesture of climbing a hill and raising his battle flag toward the heavens in verse 707, as well as with verses 711–13, which describe the pagans’ apparel of war. Charles’s statement can be interpreted as a mistaken affirmation, but it also assigns the battle that follows to Roland’s story and to Roland’s war which, although intertwined with Charlemagne’s story, remains nonetheless distinct. Roland’s distinctness is confirmed by his spatial location:

134  La Chanson de Roland he is “en sum un tertre cuntre le ciel.” His raised position near the sky distinguishes him both from his fellow Franks, who are “par tute la cuntree” (“throughout the countryside”), and from the Saracens, who are first represented “par cez greignurs valees” (“through deep valleys”). Both Charles and the pagans are described as riding. At the end of the laisse, however, the pagan army becomes immobile and begins to wait for dawn: “.IIII. C. milie atendent l’ajurnee.” The treacherousness of the Saracens’ actions is made clear in several ways. Their elaborate war-apparel quite overwhelms the only mentioned war-related Frankish accoutrement—Roland’s flag—reminding us that they have dishonorably failed to allow the Franks to prepare for war. Their final position on the mountain’s summit overshadows Roland’s position on top of a hill, emphasizing the unfairness of their stance. Finally, the guerrilla-like quality of their behavior is demonstrated in their decision to wait until dawn under the cover of woods. Interwoven with the many parallels and contrasts contained in the laisse’s spatial positioning is a skillful use of rhetorical and poetic juxtapositions. The laisse evokes past, present, and future in turn, and while the conquests of the past (commemorated in the first lines) and the future battle (bemoaned in the last) are undeniable and unambiguous, the present is filled with contrast and contradictions. Throughout the laisse, only two verbal tenses are used in the Oxford manuscript: the perfect tense to describe both past conquests and Roland’s gesture, and the present tense, used to evoke all but Roland’s actions and movements.7 The use of the perfect tense to portray Roland’s gesture indicates again that his place is one of the past and of memory. The use of the present tense in the last lines (for the illustration of the Saracens lying in ambush, as well as the narrator’s lament) evoke the future while emphasizing the tragic contrast between this future and the Franks’ present ignorance. 7. Les Textes de la Chanson de Roland, vol. 1., ed. Raoul Mortier (Paris: Éditions de la Geste Francor, 1940), 21.

La Chanson de Roland  135 Thus, Roland and the Saracens are positioned in warlike postures, while the Franks remain in their camps, and Charles rides towards France. Roland and the Franks (located in the laisse, as in life, between Charles and the Saracens) are stationary; Charles and the Saracens are mobile, Charles continuing his movement throughout the laisse and the Saracens eventually coming to a halt. The laisse clearly delineates four separate “groups”: Charlemagne, Roland, the Franks, and the pagans, in that order. The laisse is made up of fourteen lines, the first seven describing Charles, Roland, and the Franks; the last seven describing the Saracens. In an example of the binarism that characterizes the entire poem, both thematically and formally, it hinges on the mirror-image lines: “Franc se herbergent par tute la cuntree. / Paien chevalchent par cez greignurs valees” (vv. 709–10). Several chiasmus are also present. One chiasmus juxtaposes the emperor and the pagans: “Vers dulce France chevalchet l’emperere” (v. 706) versus “Paien chevalchent par cez greignurs valees” (v. 710). Another differentiates the emperor and his Franks: verse 706 versus “Franc se herbergent par tute la cuntree” (v. 709). In turn, verse 709 can be compared to verse 714, which describes the pagans: “En un bruill par sum les puis remestrent.” Finally, the use of vocabulary (“en sum un tertre,” “par sum les puis”), the mirror-image positioning of Roland’s and the pagans’ actions within the laisse, and their similar spatial positions show that it is Roland alone who faces the Saracens. The coherence of this laisse’s rhetorico-poetic devices and its spatial symbolism is striking. The poem’s narrator, as if to underline his skillful accomplishment in this writerly laisse, signals his own presence at its beginning and end—first by reiterating the learned, Latinate words of the poem’s first line (“Carles li magnes”); then by his sorrowful exclamation in the last line, deploring the fate awaiting the Franks.8 Notably, a spatial reading of laisse 55 shows Charlemagne sep8. Scholars have debated whether the Oxford Song of Roland is to be seen as primarily oral or written in nature. Jean Rychner argues that while the epic genre has oral

136  La Chanson de Roland arate from the rest of the Franks. Verse 706 shows him moving alone toward France, and verses 707–9 preclude us from inferring that his title—“emperere”—is used metonymically to represent all of the Franks. As Joseph Bédier points out in his commentaries on the poem, other scholars have been troubled by the abrupt transition from verse 706 to verse 707 in the Oxford manuscript and have dealt with the problem by introducing a verse 706b, to the effect of “Evening came.” Bédier comments on the awkwardness of this solution, suggesting that perhaps Roland’s ascent to the top of the hill signals that time has passed.9 However, there is a deeper poetic motivation at work here. In this laisse, Charlemagne is contrasted twice with both the Franks and the Saracens. First, he announces that the war is over, while Roland raises a flag and the Saracens prepare for war. Secondly, he rides towards France while the Franks camp throughout the land and the Saracens track them. More importantly, Charles’s physical position—his back turned to Roland, his attention elsewhere—echoes a crucial element in the dynamic of the battle of Roncevaux. With his gaze turned toward France, Charles cannot see the vulnerability of those whom he has left behind. His dream of Ganelon, the account of which immediately follows this origins sustained by the art of the jongleur, the Oxford manuscript of Roland represents a written composition of considerable sophistication (cf. La Chanson de geste: essai sur l’art épique des jongleurs [Geneva: Droz, 1955] and “A propos de l’article de M. André Burger, La Légende de Roncevaux avant la Chanson de Roland,” Romania 72 [1951]: 239–46). Fern Farnham asserts convincingly that Roland is structured by a “Romanesque narrative design” (“Romanesque Design in the Chanson de Roland,” Romance Philology 18, no. 2 [1964]: 143– 64). Later, Rychner also notes that Roland’s narrator shares a “narrative grammar” with Béroul, Chrétien de Troyes, and other prominent twelfth-century writers (“Le Syntagme narratif perception + sentiment ou pensée + action dans quelques récits du XIIe siècle,” Cahiers Ferdinand de Saussure 40 [1986]: 39–56, quotation on 54). For a recent treatment of the question, cf. Andrew Taylor, “Was There a Song of Roland?” Speculum 76, no. 1 (2001): 28–65. 9. “Il n’est pas sûr que le poète ait écrit un tel vers. Marquer que le chef d’une troupe en marche monte sur une hauteur et déploie une enseigne aux regards de tous, c’était peut-être suffisant pour faire entendre que du temps s’était écoulé depuis le commencement de l’étape et que le moment de faire halte était venu.” (“It is not certain that the poet wrote such a verse. Indicating that a marching troop’s leader climbs to a high place and unfurls a battle flag in clear view was perhaps enough to imply that time had gone by since the march began and that the time to halt had come.”) Joseph Bédier, La Chanson de Roland: commentée par Joseph Bédier (Paris: L’Édition d’art, 1927), 148–49.

La Chanson de Roland  137 scene, tries to tell him that there is something he is not seeing. Yet his blindness at this moment is necessary to Roland’s geste, so his incomprehension persists. In conclusion, one could say that laisse 55 functions as a sort of microcosm both of the spatial configuration of the Roncevaux battle and of the poem as a whole. We have here an emperor eager to return home; a hero who rises above the others, ensuring that France’s colors reach toward heaven; and between the two of them, the Franks, flatly represented and stationary.10 We have an enemy whose treachery is manifest mainly in the way in which it uses and occupies space. And we have a narrator calling attention to his role as one who remembers Charles’s conquests, whose own place is one of memory and commemoration, and who arranges the space of the poem through his mastery of writing. Each of these elements, revealed through a study of the poem’s use of space, plays a role in the battle that follows. In other words, the physical, objective space that I have called “spatiality” is poetically meaningful even before one takes into consideration the characters’ respective relationships with space.

A Spatial Comparison of Two Battles From the beginning, the Saracens’ use of space in preparing their attack against the Franks is represented as a key component of their perfidious behavior. After plotting Roland’s demise with Ganelon, Marsile tells the latter, “Pois me jugez Rollant a rereguarde! / Sel pois trover a port në a passage, / Liverrai lui une mortel bataille” 10. As a group, the Franks are easily manipulated throughout the poem, for good causes or bad, as is apparent, for example, during decision-making scenes. Thus, they readily accept Ganelon’s proposal of returning home before taking Saragossa, are furious at the discovery of his betrayal, but willingly accept the lessening of his penalty during the trial. Their neutral spatial position in laisse 55 indicates, perhaps, that the deadly separation of the Frankish troops into rearguard and main body has not yet taken place. As soon as they leave Roland and his rearguard behind, this neutrality ends: immediately, they see or imagine Gascony and are seized with homesickness. It is as if spatial dissociation from Roland plunges the Franks into another, more emotionally connected space, one in which they can see home. Until they leave him, they remain more spatially neutral, giving additional meaning to the line, “Dunc lur remembret des fius e des honurs” (“Then they remember the lands they hold, their sons” [v. 820, emphasis added]).

138  La Chanson de Roland (“And then name Roland commander of the guard. / If I can find him crossing some narrow pass, / There I’ll attack and fight him to the death” [vv. 656–58]). Marsile plans to use space to his advantage, attacking Roland and the Frankish rearguard in the narrow passageways and jagged mountains of the borderlands well-known to the Spanish Saracens (the narrator emphasizes this fact, describing their passage through what is to them “Tere certeine” [v. 856]) but a dangerous terrain for others. Marsile’s choice of this treacherous terrain for the battle rather than an open field conducive to fair and equal combat serves as an important indication of his cowardice and dishonesty. Time after time, the narrator depicts the hazardous terrain, and it is clear that space participates in the perfidy about to occur: Halt sunt li pui e li val tenebrus, Les roches bises, les destreiz merveillus. Le jur passerent Franceis a grant dulur. De .XV. liues en ot hom la rimur (vv. 814–17)

High are the hills, deep valleys shun the light; The cliffs rise grey, the gorges hold dark fear. The French ride on in misery and pain, Their passing heard some fifteen leagues around

It is in these gloomy valleys that Olivier first perceives the enemy troops, “Guardet sur destre par mi un val herbus, / Si veit venir cele gent paienur” (“From there he searches the valley to his right, / And sees that host of pagan Saracens” [vv. 1018–19]). The grassy valleys serve not only to hide the Saracens from sight but most likely to keep their approach silent, as opposed to the noisy clamor of the Frank’s passage.11 As the time for battle approaches, a progression takes place in the 11. Farnham touches on the idea of place with regard to these lines: “The lowering mountains have a psychological as well as descriptive function” (“Romanesque Design,” 148).

La Chanson de Roland  139 topographical descriptions of the area. The text offers fewer physical descriptions of the terrain (such as the one given above), instead identifying it more specifically with Roland and Spain. Repeatedly, the narrator links Roland and “les porz d’Espaigne” in a manner marking well the epic connection of space and geste: “Sur tuz les altres est Carles anguissus: / As porz d’Espaigne ad lessét sun nevold” (“But of them all none sorrows as does Charles, / For he has left his nephew there at the gates of Spain” [vv. 823–24]); or, in a movement that marks the beginning of the battle, “As porz d’Espaigne en est passét Rollant” (“Through the gates of Spain Count Roland passes” [v. 1152]). The narrator enacts his commemoration of Roland’s geste by forging a tie between the hero and Spain; in other words, by implacing the geste. Charles seems struck by this connection between his nephew and foreign space, realizing quite early its foreboding implications: “Jo l’ai lessét en une estrange marche. / Deus! se jo.l pert, ja n’en avrai escange” (“And I left him in a foreign land— / God! If I lose him, no one can take his place”) [vv. 839–40]). For him, the foreign placement of Roland’s death seems part of its tragedy: “Cum en Espaigne venis a mal seignur!” (“Woe that you came to Spain my lord!” [v. 2900]); or again, “Jo lur dirrai qu’il est morz en Espaigne” (“And I will tell them that Roland died in Spain” [v. 2913]).12 The spatial context of Marsile’s attack on Roland’s rearguard stands in stark contrast with that of the second battle between Baligant and Charlemagne, a fact that emphasizes yet again Marsile’s unworthiness. Before developing this spatial comparison between the two battles, I would first like to call attention to another aspect of the spatiality of the first battle: its many points in common with Einhard’s more “historical” description of the same scene in his Vita 12. I will discuss this strong identification between Roland and Spain in a further section. Roland’s connection with foreign space, very much willed by the hero, is mediated by and dependent upon his strong link to his home space of France. For Roland, the tie to France is best expressed and served by an absence from French space. This fundamental disjunction of emotional connection to space and physical spatial location characterizes Roland, Alexis, and Tristan.

140  La Chanson de Roland Caroli, one of the very few texts of the Carolingian period to mention an event at Roncevaux.13 (Other Carolingian texts mentioning the event are the Annales Royales of around 800 ad and a ninthcentury annale written by the Astronome of Limoges, the Vita Hludovici Imperatoris. Both refer to a Pyrenean setback of Charles’s troops upon their return from Spain but lack the detail of Einhard’s lively description.) Here is Einhard’s passage relating the attack against Charlemagne’s troops, orchestrated not by Saracens but by Basques: Praeter quod in ipso Pyrinei jugo Wasconicam perfidiam parumper in redeundo contigit experiri. Nam cum agmine longo, ut loci et angustiarum situs permittebat, porrectus iret exercitus, Wascones in summi montis vertice positis insidiis—est enim locus ex opacitate silvarum, quarum ibi maxima est copia, insidiis ponendis oportunus—extremam inpedimentorum partem et eos qui, novissimi agminis incedentes subsidio, praecedentes tuebantur desuper incursantes in subjectam vallem deiciunt consertoque cum eis proelio usque ad unum omnes interficiunt ac, direptis inpedimentis, noctis beneficio quae jam instabat protecti, summa cum celeritate in diversa disperguntur. Adjuvabat in hoc facto Wascones et levitas armorum et loci in quo res gerabatur situs.”14 While crossing the Pyrenees, he had the opportunity to experience momentarily the treasonous nature of the Basques. His army had to file in a long column due to the lay of the land and the narrow passes. The Basques, who had laid an ambush at the summit of a mountain—the thick woods at this place, very abundant, lent themselves well to such an ambush—hurtled down upon the end of the convoy and the rear13. The question of the “historical” veracity of the Song of Roland has received the attention of many scholars, most of whom stress the poem’s, as well as Einhard’s, fictitiousness and anachronisms. There is nonetheless much to be gained by considering Roland as a poeticization of history. K. D. Uitti, in his study of the relationship between Einhard, history, and the Roland poem, argues that the latter reworks and restores history while remaining faithful to its meaning and truth (“ ‘Ço dit la geste’ ”). My analysis of the spatial similarities between Einhard and the Song of Roland build on Uitti’s study. 14. Éginhard (Einhard), Vie de Charlemagne, ed. and trans. Louis Halphen, Librairie Ancienne Honoré (Paris: Champion, 1923), 30. Emphasis added; translation is mine.

La Chanson de Roland  141 guard, which was covering the main army. They threw them into a valley, joined battle with them, and massacred them to the last man. Then, having pillaged the baggage, they dispersed very rapidly in all directions, aided by nightfall. The Basques had to their advantage the lightness of their armament and the configuration of the terrain.

This passage contains many of the same elements that comprise the space of battle in the Song of Roland (a striking amount of which can be found in laisse 55): the raised position of the enemy on the summit of a mountain; their hiding place in thick woods; the presence of valleys and of long narrow passageways through which the soldiers must file. Einhard states clearly that the spatial configuration of the Basque attack (as well as their light armament, which in addition to being typical of mountain troops derives from a spatial advantage—an army that is close to home can travel more lightly) gives them a significant advantage in battle. Our narrator reproduces these same elements in the spatial context for the battle of Roncevaux. Both Einhard and the author of the Song of Roland believe that what happened at Roncevaux represents an unjust and discourteous use of space—a failure to play by the rules of the game—and that consequently, Roncevaux should not be seen as a defeat for Charlemagne. Both writers see space as a central component of the battle. A spatial reading of the poem’s second battle scene reinforces retroactively and by contrast the sense that Marsile uses space unjustly in the Roncevaux battle. The spatial descriptions of the mountainous terrain noted above precede the beginning of the battle proper in laisse 91. The terrain where the actual battle takes place is never described; the battle begins hastily, with virtually no preamble. This contrasts sharply with the detailed framework of the battle pitting Charlemagne against Baligant. In fact, it is only when one reads the evocation of the second battle that one realizes the many elements of standard warfare missing in the first. Thus, a full fifteen laisses before the beginning of the second battle in laisse 240, Baligant’s advance

142  La Chanson de Roland guard reaches Charles and his army, and two messengers announce to him that Baligant’s arrival is imminent. No messengers announce to Roland the arrival of Marsile’s army: it is only upon hearing the distant sound of the latter’s horns that they learn of their approach. Charlemagne and his troops have ample time to prepare for battle, arming themselves, forming escheles, saying a prayer, riding into Spain, and taking position upon the battlefield before the combat begins. Roland and his rearguard have almost no time to prepare for battle; indeed, Marsile’s war plan depends upon an element of surprise. In contrast, Baligant does not surprise Charles in a terrain unsuitable for battle. Rather, in a movement the symbolism of which is evident, Charles and his army pass through the same kind of space that framed Roland’s downfall before engaging Baligant’s army: Passent cez puis e cez roches plus haltes, E cez parfunz valees, cez destreiz anguisables. Issent des porz e de la tere guaste. Devers Espaigne sunt alez en la marche, En un emplein si unt pris lur estage (vv. 3125–29)

They pass by the mountains and the highest rocks, The deep valleys and the distressful defiles. They leave the pass and the wasteland, They entered the Spanish march, They have halted on a plain.

After the Franks take position on the plain of battle, the narrator describes the composition of Baligant’s army, as he did for that of Charles. In addition, we also learn that the Saracen emir holds Charles in respect, for he reminds his son of the latter’s many gestes: “Dist Baligant: ‘Oïl, car mult est proz. / En plusurs gestes de lui sunt granz honurs’ ” (“Baligant said: ‘Oh yes, because he is very worthy. / Great tributes are paid to him in many chronicles’ ” [vv. 3180–81]). Each element of the second battle scene serves to underline the symmetry inherent in the confrontation of Baligant’s and Charlemagne’s

La Chanson de Roland  143 armies. The composition of each army is multinational, both leaders are noble and courageous, all have had sufficient time to prepare; perhaps most importantly, the space of battle benefits neither side. All the elements necessary to a fair and proper battle are in place, in contrast with the Roncevaux battle. At Roncevaux, there is no time for preparation. The Franks are overwhelmingly outnumbered, for their rearguard (after all, just part of the army) faces the entire army of Saragossa. Moreover, Roland and Marsile represent an entirely unsuitable and imbalanced matchup15 and, as we have seen, the space of battle clearly gives the advantage to one side. The narrator emphasizes repeatedly the appropriateness of the second battle, implicitly differentiating it from the first; thus, he proclaims: Granz sunt les oz e les escheles beles. Entr’els nen at ne pui ne val ne tertre, Selve ne bois asconse n’i poet estre, Ben s’entreveient en mi la pleine tere (vv. 3291–94)

The opposing armies are vast, and the divisions are in fine array. There is no mountain, valley, or hill between them, No forest or wood can offer a hiding place, They see each other clearly in the middle of the open area.

The narrator repeats, “Grant est la plaigne e large la cuntree” (“The plain is vast and the countryside extends far and wide” [v. 3305]). These descriptions illustrate how expressive is spatiality of deeper values and meanings. Thus, Roland’s geste takes place within a context of complete spatial separation from both France and the embodiment of France rep15. In terms of social status, Marsile, as king, is more elevated than Roland; in moral standing, Roland towers above Marsile. This disparity between these two figures makes their confrontation unsuitable. It is precisely because Baligant and Charlemagne are both kings and proz that they can engage in a proper battle. By raising the question of the greater or lesser suitability of battle opponents, and especially by valorizing the Baligant/Charlemagne confrontation, Roland introduces nuance into the Manichean ethic typically associated with it.

144  La Chanson de Roland resented by Charles and his army. The famous episode of the olifant (Roland’s horn) signals the importance of this isolation. As noted, Roland’s rearguard is first made vulnerable by its total physical disconnection from the main body of the army. The olifant represents a means to reestablish connection with the army, and hence, with home. Roland’s stubborn refusal to blow his horn in order to summon Charlemagne, and his final decision to blow the horn when he knows the battle’s end is near, are arguably the poem’s most memorable and crucial moments. Above all, perhaps, the olifant serves as a means of bridging spatial separation. To Roland’s mind, calling for an end to his isolation too soon brings dishonor. As the following exchange between Olivier and Roland makes clear, Roland’s isolation from the rest of Charles’s army represents for him an integral part of his geste: Dist Oliver: “Paien unt grant esforz, De noz Franceis m’i semblet aveir mult poi! Cumpaign Rollant, kar sunez vostre corn, Si l’orrat Carles, si returnerat l’ost.” Respunt Rollant: “Jo fereie que fols! En dulce France en perdreie mun los” (vv. 1049–54)

Oliver said, “The pagans have a huge army, Our French, it seems to me, are in mighty small number! Comrade Roland, do sound your horn, Charles will hear it and the army will turn back.” Roland replies: “I would be behaving like a fool! I would lose my good name in fair France.”

Even before realizing that he will wage battle with the Saracen army, Roland insists on the isolation of his rearguard, refusing Charles’s offer of leaving him with extra troops by proclaiming: “Deus me cunfunde, se la geste en desment!” (“I’ll be damned if I so deny my geste!”) [v. 788]).16 It is only when he has fulfilled his duty by fight16. Scholars have struggled with the meaning of this verse, generally taking geste to mean the collective tradition or memory of one’s lineage. I agree with K. D. Uitti’s asser-

La Chanson de Roland  145 ing to the end, without Charles’s help, that he can, and indeed must, communicate with Charles. By blowing the horn, he bridges the space between them so that his geste might be remembered and celebrated in France, the place in which, and through which, the geste finds its full meaning. Interestingly, it is not the battle but the effort of bridging the separation that kills Roland. In the most literal sense, his reconnection with home (represented by Charles and the Frankish army) coincides with his death.17 As he dies, Roland listens impatiently for the sound of Charlemagne’s arrival, “Mais saveir volt se Charles i vendrat” (“But he wants to know if Charles will come”) [v. 2103]), for only this will ensure that his story be told. The olifant, about which we are told “la voiz est mult lunge” (“the sound travels a great distance” [v. 1755]), is the instrument that allows the essential reunion between Roland and dulce France. The olifant is the long-reaching voice of Roland’s geste; like the poem itself, it ensures that Roland’s geste will be remembered.

Pla ce s of Belon gin g The above study of the Song of Roland’s “neutral” spatiality reveals some of the ways in which poetic space takes on meaning even when it is considered in its objective and impersonal manifestations. Now I will turn to the poem’s subjective and personal spatial configurations, examining the ways in which the poem’s characters are portrayed as emotionally involved with, and affected by, space. In other words, spatiality tells us how space is meaningful when contion that Roland refers here to his own story—the story of the great deed he knows he is destined to accomplish (“ ‘Ço dit la geste,’ ” 16)—and have amended Brault’s translation of this line accordingly. Roland’s sense of faithfulness to his own geste echoes Christ’s awareness of fulfilling scripture through his actions (e.g., John 19:28–30, in which a dying Christ declares “I thirst” in order to fulfill the words of Psalm 69:21). This faithfulness on Roland’s part is appropriate to a miles Christi. 17. As we will see, this coincidence of the hero’s final reconnection with home and his death represents one of the most striking similarities among Alexis, Roland, and Tristan.

146  La Chanson de Roland sidered as a structuring framework of narrative. I now propose to explore how space is meaningful for the poem’s characters. In literature, characters are consistently identified with their space of origins, a space associated with affective and emotional ties: to one’s own past, to familiar sites, to family, and to loved ones. I call these spaces, to which one is bound in belonging and memory, place. I will first examine the spatial belonging of the Franks, considered as a group, then that of Charles, the Saracen enemy, and Ganelon. Lastly, I will discuss the exemplary belonging of Roland.

“France, la lur tere”: The Sweetness of Home The Frankish Army As we have seen, the Franks are strongly identified by both their belonging to France and their desire to return home. It is from Marsile’s mouth that we first hear the term France dulce (v. 16), and Blancandrin is the first to mention the Franks’ desire to return home, in his speech to Marsile’s council (laisse 4). Thus, the Franks’ belonging to the space of France is first given expression by outsiders to this space. The narrator, on the other hand, initially defines their belonging by including them in the “nostre” of the first line. This single word offers an identification so clear it does not need to be qualified: they are part of a we, and that we is defined by a he, the great king and emperor Charles. Later, this we is linked to the French collectivity and audience of the poem, when the narrator calls the Franks “noz Franceis” (“our French” [v. 1190]). Initially, so strong and obvious is the belonging that binds the collective self (or we of the audience), Charlemagne, and the space of France that it need not be explicitly formulated; as I have noted, the first formulation of Frankish belonging is provided by outsiders.18 18. In real terms, the poem remains vague about the precise geographical location meant by “France.” At times, it is the northern region around Paris (vv. 1428–29); at times, it seems to include Gascony (v. 819); at other times, it seems to refer to the whole of Charlemagne’s empire. At the time of Roland’s composition, France and the French audience also included French-speaking England. In this book, I have purposely retained the vagueness

La Chanson de Roland  147 The beginning of the poem is heavily weighted with references to France as a place, with the word “France” occurring thirty-four times within the first thousand lines, ten of which occur in the first two hundred lines. In verses 1000–2000, “France” occurs sixteen times; in verses 2000–3000, twenty times; and in verses 3000–4002, fourteen times. Looking more closely at the first ten occurrences, which provide spatial context to the narration, we find the following: “Li epereres Carles de France dulce” (“Emperor Charles of fair France” [v. 16, spoken by Marsile]); “En France, ad Ais, s’en deit ben repairer” (“That he ought to go back home to France, to Aix” [v. 36, Blancandrin]); “Francs s’en irunt en France, la lur tere” (“The Franks will go back to France, their land” [v. 50, Blancandrin]); “Vindrent a Charles, ki France ad en baillie” (“They came to Charles, who rules over France” [v. 94, narrator]); “De dulce France i ad quinze milliers” (“There are fifteen thousand men from fair France” [v. 109, narrator]); “La siet li reis ki dulce France tient” (“There sits the king, who rules fair France” [v. 116, narrator]); “En France, ad Ais, bien repairer devez” (“You should go back home to Aix, in France” [v. 135, Blancandrin]); “Par cels de France voelt il [Charles] del tut errer” (“He wishes to be guided by the men of France in this entire matter” [v. 167, narrator]); “Des Francs de France en i ad plus de mil” (“There are more than a thousand Franks from France” [v. 177, narrator]); “Mais il me mandet quë en France m’en alge” (“But he asks me to return to France” [v. 187, Charles]). Seven of the ten lines are spoken about, to, or by Charles. This fact shows the magnitude of the emperor’s role in defining the essence of France as place. The other three lines concern the Franks, emphasizing their numbers and twice using the words “Francs” and “France” in the same line. Moreover, we see here the relative importance of Blancandrin in linking the Franks to their homeland. Besides the narrator, he is the character who utters most often the word “France,” each time in the context of an attempt to persuade them to return home. of the poet, who is clearly more interested in the meanings of France (France as place) than in its geographical boundaries.

148  La Chanson de Roland That the first thousand lines should be more heavily weighted with references to France than any other part of the poem indicates the significant role played by spatial belonging in defining who the Franks are and in understanding the story about to be told. Furthermore, that the character who most often refers to France should be Blancandrin, an enemy, shows that space is an essential element of the struggle between the Franks and the Spanish Saracens. Blancandrin successfully uses the Franks’ attachment to France to negotiate their departure from Spain. Interestingly, this tendency to put the word “France” in the mouth of the enemy does not stop here: of the next eight occurrences, six are uttered by Ganelon, one by Blancandrin, and one by Marsile. (It is as if Ganelon notes the persuasive power of Blancandrin’s argument and enlists it to achieve his personal goal of destroying Roland.) In short, the narrator emphasizes in the first part of the poem the strength of the ties binding Charles and the Franks to France, from the perspective of the enemy’s awareness of these ties and the latter’s shrewd intention to turn them to their advantage.19 In describing those attending the council as literally “taken by evil” (“le cunseill que mal prist” [v. 179]), the narrator makes clear that the Franks are defined foremost not by their belonging to their individual regions but to France. As they are characterized in laisse 12, only two of Charles’s barons are given a regional attribution: Acelin of Gascony and Thibaud of Reims. All are included in the term: “Francs de France” (“Franks of France” [v. 177]) which, as Lucien Foulet noted in his Index des noms propres to Bédier’s edition, understands the term France in its narrowest sense and includes the most beloved of Charlemagne’s barons.20 As I have noted, the Franks are 19. The Franks’ disregard for the strength of their enemy’s belonging to place stands in stark contrast with this awareness on the part of the Saracens. Only Roland understands the implications of the enemy’s attachment to Saragossa. I will return to this point in a later section. 20. For a discussion of the terms France and Franceis in the Song of Roland, see Bédier, Les Legendes épiques, 511–12, and also Ferdinand Lot, Études sur les légendes épiques françaises (Paris: Champion, 1958), 274–78.

La Chanson de Roland  149 eager to return home and are almost effortlessly persuaded to that purpose despite Roland’s attempts to convince them to stay and besiege Saragossa. When Ganelon returns to them with Marsile’s confirmation of his previous peace offer, they quickly raise camp and begin riding towards France: “Franc desherbergent, funt lur sumers trosser, / Vers dulce France tuit sunt achiminez” (“The Franks break camp, they have their beasts of burden packed up, / All have taken the road for fair France” [vv. 701–2]). When the Frankish army, having left Roland and the rearguard behind, reaches what is called throughout the poem “Tere Majur,” they perceive Gascony, the first sight of home. Whether they see Gascony in reality or only in their mind’s eye does not lessen the profound impact of this sighting on the Franks. Puis que il venent a la Tere Majur, Virent Guascuigne, la tere lur seignur. Dunc lur remembret des fius e des honurs E des pulceles e des gentilz oixurs: Cel n’en i ad ki de pitet ne plurt (vv. 818–22)

Reaching the Fatherland, They saw Gascony, their sovereign’s land. Then they are reminded of their fiefs and of their domains, And of maidens and of noble spouses: All eyes are brimming with tears of yearning.

Home, above all, finds its meaning in the land, their lord, and the women left behind. The significance of women in defining home is also evoked during the battle pitting the rearguard against Marsile’s army: “Tant bon Franceis i perdent lor juvente! / Ne reverrunt lor meres ne lor femmes, / Ne cels de France ki as porz les atendent” (“So many good Frenchmen lose their lives there / They shall not see their mothers again, nor their wives, / Nor the men of France who await them in the mountain pass” [vv. 1401–3]). Just after this, the narrator forewarns us that Ganelon’s betrayal will mean the death of thir-

150  La Chanson de Roland ty members of his family (“De ses parenz ensembl’od lui tels trente / Ki de murir nen ourent esperance” [vv. 1410–11]), and then again expresses sorrow at the fact that the Frankish dead will never again see their families, “Ne reverrunt lor peres ne parenz / Ne Carlemagne, ki as porz les atent” (“They shall not see their fathers again nor their relatives, / Nor Charlemagne, who is waiting for them in the mountain pass” [vv. 1421–22]). The place of home is thus closely connected to people, and the narrator reminds us here of the sorrowful consequences of events on family members. The most poignant and personalized expression of this sorrow will be seen in the figure of Aude, Roland’s fiancée. While women are seldom portrayed in the narration of the Song of Roland, their presence is subtly woven into the poem through the strength of their identification with France. This powerful connection between family and the place of France can be perceived in the term “Tere Majur,” which is used frequently to designate France by both Franks and Saracens. In his commentary, Bédier admits three possible translations of the term, “Grande Terre” (“great land”), “patrie” (“homeland”), or “Terre des Aieux” (“land of ancestors”), opting for the latter in his translation because it is poetically most beautiful. (Brault uses “the Fatherland” for his English translation.) This meaning of Tere Majur also complements the connotations of home I noted above. (For further discussion of the term Tere Majur, see below.) In addition to being identified with the women and family awaiting them, the territory of France also signifies for the Franks a connection, through the land, to their forebears. In this way, their attachment to France also locates them within a history and a tradition, anchoring them to a place and including them in its continuous memory. This idea finds an echo in the words of Turpin the archbishop, “Il est escrit en la Geste Francor / Que vassals est li nostre empereür” (“It is written in the Annals of the Franks / That our Emperor is brave” [vv. 1443–44]).21 21. Bédier declines to translate verse 1444, declaring that “the idea is of a rare insignificance” and concluding that any attempt at understanding the verse is a locus despera-

La Chanson de Roland  151 Setting aside its textual difficulties (see note 21), this passage evokes the notion of a written tradition commemorating the deeds of the Franks, la Geste Francor; a connection of this geste to the person of the emperor; and an allusion to the emperor’s vassals (either to their bravery or to their steadfast adherence to Charlemagne). This assemblage of notions insists once more on the tradition of belonging shared by the Frankish vassals of the emperor, both present and past, a tradition that takes root in a specific place, the land of one’s ancestors. The mention of a written tradition places the particular geste of Roncevaux within a greater context, the geste of France. In this geste Francor, of which the Song of Roland is a part, past and present join, projecting themselves into a future ensured by the active memory of its participants. The term Tere Majur follows the same pattern I noted for the term dulce France: it is most often uttered by the enemy. Ganelon is the first to use the term, in an attempt to persuade Marsile that killing Roland will be to Marsile’s advantage as well as his own. With Roland dead, Ganelon assures Marsile that “Tere Major remeindreit en repos” (“The Fatherland would remain in peace” [v. 600]). It is used a second time by the narrator in the passage cited above, describing the Franks’ first sighting of Gascony. The third, fourth, and fifth time it is uttered by Saracens (“ ‘Tere Majur vos metrum en present’ ” [“ ‘ We’ll deliver the Fatherland over to you’ ” (v. 952)], “Tere Major, ço dit, metrat a hunte” [“He will, he says, cover the Fatherland with shame” (v. 1489)], “ ‘Tere Major, Mahummet te maldie!’ ” [“Mohammed damn you, Fatherland!” (v. 1616)]; and the tus. He cites, however, the corresponding lines from the other Roland manuscripts. Four of these manuscripts (Châteauroux [C], Venice [V7], B.N. fr. 860 [P], Cambridge [T]) insert between the two verses an additional verse, to the effect of “Droiz est a estre en la Terre Major,” and change the meaning of the last verse slightly: C and V7 have “Qe proz vasal ont (V7 hont) l’empereor”; P and T have “Que vassal soient avec l’empereor.” The word “empereür” is in the oblique case, while the definite article “li” is in the nominative. Keeping Oxford as our base manuscript, we can surmise that “empereür” might signify a genitive and correct the article accordingly, to the oblique “le.” Thus, we obtain something along these lines: “It is written in the Geste Francor that a valiant warrior is of [i.e., owes allegiance to] our emperor.”

152  La Chanson de Roland last by Ganelon (“ ‘Tere Major mult est loinz ça devant’ ” [“ ‘The Fatherland is very far ahead of us’ ” (v. 1784)]), in the context of his attempt to persuade Charles not to respond to the sound of Roland’s horn. This almost exclusive use of the term by enemies of the Franks is surprising, especially if one accepts its primary definition as “the land of one’s ancestors.” Ganelon’s cunning use of the term reinforces the connection between the Franks and their homeland, alternately convincing the Saracens of his desire for peace and wielding Charles’s own homesickness against him. Why do the Saracens so often use this term, evocative of the connection between France and the Franks’ forebears, to designate France? Lucien Foulet, in his glossary to Bédier’s edition, defines Tere Majur thus: “C’est la France que désignent ainsi soit les Français eux-mêmes, soit les Sarrasins.” 22 Arguably, the difficulty of glossing the term lies in the fact that, within the worldview that informs Roland, Tere Majur—indeed, place in general—can be seen and valued in two basic ways. The two ways of valuing place are represented, respectively, by the Saracens and the Franks. For the Saracens, Tere Majur is desirable primarily as a material possession that, once won, will bring their enemy to shame. For the Franks, not only Tere Majur but also Spain are lands vouchsafed to serve God, endowed with a deeply spiritual significance. In the Franks’ mind, the Saracens’ ungodliness would represent a corruption of the spiritual bond that exists between God and place. If we understand that Tere Majur signifies very different things for the Franks and the Saracens in this poem, we can better comprehend the use of this term that has puzzled scholars like Bédier. Tere Majur, as understood by the Franks and by the Saracens, contains the underlying tension—a tension intimately related to place—that drives the entire poem. Place can be a worldly possession filled with worldly ties, or it can be bound to the higher value of service to God. 22. L. Foulet, in Bédier, La Chanson de Roland, 419.

La Chanson de Roland  153 The above citations by the Saracens also indicate that, quite early on, their thoughts take a new turn: they will not stop at defending themselves against Charlemagne but rather plan eventually to become masters of Tere Majur. (I will examine this point in more detail in the section on the Saracens’ belonging to place.) They are acutely conscious of the Franks’ bond to their ancestral homeland. A victory over dulce France would deprive their enemies of the sweetness of home. How much greater a victory over Tere Majur, which would sever the Franks from their past! While the Franks are constantly designated as a common body through the frequent use of phrases such as “Dient Franceis,” the nature of this belonging is not just chivalric, geographical, and familial. The first laisse of the poem, which states that Marsile does not love God, reveals the religious purpose that guides the Franks. The poem’s last laisse, especially, indicates that Charles is responsible for defending not only France but all of Christendom. At the onset of the Roncevaux battle, Archbishop Turpin encourages the Franks by proclaiming, “Chrestïentet aidez a sustenir!” (“Help sustain Christianity!” [v. 1129]). Occasionally, instead of referring to them as Francs or Franceis, the narrator calls them chrestiens, as in verse 1679. For the dying Roland, France itself becomes holy, “France l’asolue” (“blessed France” [v. 2311]). Lucien Foulet reminds us in his glossary to Bédier’s edition that Holy Thursday was designated in Old French by the term jeudi absolu; the Holy Lands by terre absolue. In this context, Roland’s death can be considered as an example of imitatio Christi, for as Christ’s life and death renders sacred, or absolu, both time (jeudi) and space (terre), so does Roland’s sacrifice confer sacredness upon, and derive it from, France. Turpin is the text’s foremost representative of the Christian component of the Franks’ belonging. He leads them in prayer before battle, absolves them of their sins, and performs for them the last rites. In his dying scene (laisses 165–66), after being mortally wounded, Turpin sees that Roland has fainted. He takes Ro-

154  La Chanson de Roland land’s olifant and weakly stumbles toward the river in order to bring the hero some water. It is while accomplishing this gesture of selfsacrifice, one subtly reminiscent of Christ’s dying request for water, that Turpin apparently dies. Of the poem’s main characters, his is the only death not witnessed by the reader. Roland simply awakes to find him dead, lying “ultre ses cumpaignuns” (“beyond his companions” [v. 2236]), somewhat apart from the rows of Frankish fallen lined up by Roland. This spatial configuration, as well as the silence of his death, reflects Turpin’s unique role in the Frankish army. He lives as a soldier among the others and fully participates in their duties; however, as a man of God, he stands apart from the group, as does Roland for his great bravery. When Roland asks Turpin for permission to assemble the dead Franks and place them near the archbishop, the latter responds by appropriating for himself and Roland the space of the battlefield: “Cist camp est vostre, mercit Deu, vostre e mien” (“This battlefield is yours, thank God, yours and mine” [v. 2183]). Thus, Roland and Turpin form a complementary pair that parallels the more celebrated Roland-Olivier couple. Roland needs Turpin to sanctify for him the place of death; Turpin needs Roland’s strength to assemble the troops for the last time. The two men, who are last to die, represent two essential faces of the miles Christi: the soldier and the man of the Church. Within the poem’s perspective, the Franks’ Christian belonging drives their efforts to secure Spain and Saragossa, thus giving divine approval to their actions, as proven by the miracle God grants to enable them to accomplish their task. Having responded to the sound of Roland’s horn and discovered the disaster that has befallen the rearguard, Charlemagne begins to chase after the Saracens. Realizing that the sun will set before he is able to catch up to them and avenge Roland’s death, he prays that God might let the daylight last. The angel Gabriel then commands him to ride, saying, “Charle, chevalche, car tei ne falt clartet” (“Ride, Charles, for you do not lack daylight!” [v. 2454]). This miracle, the abundance of light, is expressly granted

La Chanson de Roland  155 for Charlemagne: “Pur Karlemagne fist Deux vertuz mult granz, / Car li soleilz est remés en estant” (“God performed a very great miracle for Charlemagne, / For the sun stood still” [vv. 2458–59]). Within Roland’s perspective, Charles of France and, through him, his people and his land, enjoy God’s favor and accomplish His will on Earth by ensuring and, if need be, restoring the right relationship of place to God; in other words, by making space Christian.

Charles the Great We have already seen to what extent Charles is identified with the space of France. For the Franks as well as their enemies, he is a sort of mobile embodiment of dulce France. The poem often describes Charles formulaically as a personage of transcendent and almost superhuman greatness. This greatness mirrors the universality of France, called to represent Christendom throughout the world. Yet just as France’s defining characteristics—land, lord, family, women—belong very much to the realm of human ties, so is Charles defined by his humanity. Before engaging in battle with Charles, the emir Baligant describes to his son, Malpramis, the bond between the emperor and his army: “Ensembl’od els .XV. milie de Francs, / De bachelers que Carles cleimet enfanz” (“With them, fifteen thousand Franks, / Young men whom Charles calls his children” [vv. 3196–97]). For Charles, the Franks are not just vassals; they are his children.23 Once again, it falls to an outsider, Baligant, to express the intimacy of this essential bond between Charles and the Franks. The Franks themselves most often refer to Charles as rei. In one case, just before deciding to sound his horn, Roland also calls him amis: “E! reis, amis, que vos ici nen estes!” (“O dear King, what a shame you’re not here!” 23. Enfanz can mean “children” or “young warriors.” For the translation of this line, Brault has opted for “children,” as have other translators of Roland ( Joseph Bédier, La Chanson de Roland and Ian Short, La Chanson de Roland [Paris: Librairie Générale Française, 1990] for example).

156  La Chanson de Roland [v. 1697]). In turn, Charles’s feelings for the Franks are so strong that they can frequently be translated to him only through the images of dreams in which he struggles to defend the Franks against fierce animals (see laisses 56–57, 185–86). When Charles holds council with his barons, he clearly expects them to be actively involved in decision-making. At times, in fact, he abides by their decision even when he disagrees with it, as in the scene of Ganelon’s judgment. In this scene, the barons’ complacency would have left the traitor unpunished had not Thierry stepped in to defend Charles’s wishes. The process through which Ganelon’s judgment is achieved demonstrates an essential aspect of Charles’s leadership. As ruler and monarch, he incontestably has the final word in this decision, and he clearly wants to see Ganelon punished for his betrayal. Yet he is determined to be guided by “the men of France,” as stated in a line that bears repeating: “Par cels de France voelt il del tut errer” (v. 167). If the Franks look to Charles for guidance and support, so does he want the same from them, and he will not ignore their will, even when it runs counter to his own.24 The poem’s insistence upon the responsibility born by Charles for the rearguard’s misfortune also speaks to the paternal quality of his relationship to his men. In a heavy responsibility borne by all military leaders, Charles is accountable for where his men are— in other words, for their spatial placement. In the rearguard’s case, Charles has left them in the dangerous and narrow passes of Spain: 24. Peter Haidu sees in Ganelon’s trial a shift from feudal to monarchical law; chap. 9 of The Subject of Violence: The Song of Roland and the Birth of the State (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993), esp. 165. According to Haidu, Ganelon meticulously follows the requirements of feudal law in exercising his right to private vengeance on Roland, a fact recognized by the barons. In contrast, Charles and his unlikely champion Thierry advance the primacy of kingly over feudal rights wherever the two conflict. Thus, Ganelon’s trial reflects the beginnings of a monarchical state. Sarah Kay notes, “If this scene inaugurates (as Haidu has contended) the invention of the ‘state,’ then subsequent chansons de geste will proceed to de-invent it.” The Chansons de geste in the Age of Romance (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 121. Cf. also Erich Köhler, “Conseil des barons” und “jugement des barons”: Epische Fatalität und Feudalrecht im altfranzösischen Rolandslied (Heidelberg: Carl Winter-Universitätsverlag, 1968).

La Chanson de Roland  157 “Sur tuz les altres est Carles anguissus, / As porz d’Espaigne ad lesset sun nevold” (vv. 823–24), or again, “Jo l’ai lesset en une estrange marche” (v. 839). The same idea is reiterated by the enemy: “Fols est li reis ki vos laissat as porz” (“The king who left you in the pass is contemptible” [v. 1193, spoken by Marsile’s nephew, Aelroth]); “Carles li Magnes mar vos laissat as porz!” (“Charlemagne left you at the pass, that’s his misfortune!” [v. 1949, spoken by a pagan, Marganice]). In a fatal misunderstanding of the power of place (for place is unambiguously designated as a crucial element here, in the repetition of the phrase “laisser as porz”), Charles literally turned his back on the rearguard too soon, leaving his “children” in the dangerous borderlands. It was his duty to secure the space that would be occupied by his rearguard. Reciprocally, Roland clearly considers it his duty to secure this same space for Charles, “Ben devuns ci estre pur nostre rei” (“We must take a stand here for our king” [v. 1009]). When Roland and his rearguard are vanquished, having nonetheless won the space of battle for Charles, it falls upon Charles to return to Roncevaux and eventually secure Saragossa—the space where the fatal misapprehension originated. This space-centered perspective on Charles’s role in the events at Roncevaux show the extent to which foreign space can bring danger and confusion, even to the great emperor. How different, then, is the safety of home. After having recognized his initial underestimation of the value of space and having captured Saragossa, Charles can return to Aix, “al meillor sied de France” (literally, “the best seat of France” [v. 3706]). At last, the yearning for home, which stretches across the entire poem, is satisfied, and Charles is reanchored in his “best” place, the place of home. He will only be afforded the comfort of home for the time necessary to ensure that Ganelon is punished. This accomplishment of justice is necessary to ensure the truthful memory of Roland’s geste—a task Roland requested of Charles when he blew his olifant. If Ganelon’s treason were to go unpunished, the full truth of Roland’s deed would not live in the memory of dulce

158  La Chanson de Roland France. Because the place of France is the true source of and reason for Roland’s geste, it is in France that the justice, truth, and memory surrounding this geste must come together and find expression. This is why Charles must return to Aix before initiating Ganelon’s trial. As I have pointed out, Charles appears to be incapable of ensuring Roland’s memory on his own. When his barons suggest that he should forgive Ganelon, Charles is greatly saddened, but can do nothing. It is Thierry, whom Uitti calls a sort of “French Everyman,”25 who must bravely risk his own life in service of Roland’s memory. Without Thierry’s active participation, Charles is quite powerless to accomplish justice. This truth underlines an interesting fact: the emperor can only act as an intermediary to memory. Only he can bring Roland’s story back to France, but the French everyman must be the one to remember it. Just as importantly, the act of remembering often involves a willingness to give one’s very life, a willingness that in the eyes of some appears excessive, or démesuré. Thus, the barons declare that anyone who would accept to combat the giant Pinabel would be insane (v. 3804), but Thierry—described as medium-sized and slight of build, as well as swarthy and dark-haired—accepts, refusing to forget what Ganelon has done. In the very same way, while at the beginning of the poem Charles’s barons encourage the emperor to accept Marsile’s peace offer, declaring, “Quand il vos mandet qu’aiez mercit de lui, / Pecchet fereit ki dunc li fesist plus” (“He begs you to have mercy on him, / So anyone pursuing him further would be committing a sin” [vv. 239–40]), Roland refuses to forget that Marsile killed two of Charles’s counts, Basan and Basile. The stakes of faithful memory are high indeed. Even before Thierry risks his life to ensure Roland’s memory, the poem portrays another figure of memory: Aude, Roland’s fiancée. She appears immediately upon Charles’s return to his palace to inquire after Roland: “Ço dist al rei: ‘O est Rollant le catanie, / Ki me jurat cume sa per a prendre?’ ” (“She said to the king: ‘Where is Ro25. Uitti, “ ‘Ço dit la geste,’ ” 17.

La Chanson de Roland  159 land, the captain, / Who gave me his solemn word he would take me to wife?’ ” [vv. 3709–10]). When Charles informs her of Roland’s death and offers to marry her to his son, Louis, saying “Il est mes filz e si tendrat mes marches” (“He is my son and he will rule my marches” [v. 3716]), Aude responds, “Cest mot mei est estrange” (“This offer seems strange to me” [v. 3717]). In this exchange, the proximity of the words marches and estrange recall Charles’s earlier anguish at leaving Roland behind (“Jo l’ai lesset en une estrange marche” [v. 839]), while underlining the notions of foreignness and space. Aude, who is indeed Roland’s per, or peer, reacts to the news of Roland’s death with the same démesure that characterized Thierry and Roland himself. The idea of consolation (which involves a certain amount of forgetting) is strange to her, and instead of choosing to forget and live on, she dies as testament to Roland’s memory. Thus, Charlemagne needs Aude and Thierry to enact, or to make real, the remembering of Roland. While he relies on others to act in the safeguarding of memory, he himself seems to be called upon to feel memory, to bear its emotional weight. Of all the poem’s characters, his emotions and psychological life are by far the most developed. His dreams are described at length, offering a window onto his inner life that is unavailable for other characters. From the moment that Roland is designated for the rearguard by Ganelon, Charles shows his sorrow (yet, once again, seems powerless to change this designation): “Li empereres en tint sun chef enbrunc, / Si duist sa barbe e detoerst sun gernun. / Ne poet muër que des oilz ne plurt” (“The emperor kept his head bowed down, / He stroked his beard and twisted his moustache. / He cannot prevent the tears welling from his eyes” [vv. 771–73]). His first dream warns him of Ganelon’s treachery even before the rearguard has been left behind, but he only seems to realize this when it is too late (laisse 67). Indeed, the departure of Roland and the rearguard, and the accomplishment of Ganelon’s plan, appear to be orchestrated by a higher power that can be stopped by no one. The narrator describes re-

160  La Chanson de Roland peatedly Charles’s great sorrow (“Pitet l’en prent, ne poet muër n’en plurt” [“He is suddenly distressed, he cannot help weeping” (v. 825)]; “Si grant doel ai ne puis muër nel pleigne” [“I am suffering such anguish that I can’t help showing it” (v. 834)]; “Carles li magnes ne poet muër n’en plurt” [“Charles the great can’t keep from weeping” (v. 841)]). When he comes upon the battlefield of Roncevaux and sees that all are dead, the emperor’s feelings are again shown repeatedly. An entire laisse (185) is given to the description of his emotional state. Twenty laisses later, he comes back to Roncevaux after having defeated Marsile. Upon discovering Roland’s body, he faints twice, and his lament lasts so long (5 laisses) that his barons finally intervene, urging him to have the dead Franks buried. Throughout the poem, one of Charles’s main functions is an emotional one: we rarely see him in combat but frequently witness him worrying, dreaming, and grieving. Indeed, the text’s closing lines show him weeping and pulling at his beard. His role seems to be to resonate with the tragic meaning of the story, to carry within himself all the sorrow of France’s loss. The Franks turn their will and their emotions toward him, looking to him to give meaning to their actions and feelings. He stands at the center of the converging lines of their grief.

The Enemy and the Tenacity of Place The Saracens of Saragossa The Song of Roland opens with a discussion among King Marsile and the barons of Saragossa, who are deciding how to deal with the threat posed by Charlemagne to their city. Saragossa, the last bastion of Islam in Spain, will soon be taken by the emperor unless they act quickly and decisively. Marsile knows his army to be too weak to withstand the Frankish assault and asks his counselors for advice. At this point, Blancandrin steps up and recommends that Marsile send messengers to Charles to offer him gifts and hostages and to promise to follow him to France and convert to Christianity on the

La Chanson de Roland  161 feast of St. Michael. According to the plan, Charles will accept his offer and return to France. The immediate threat of a Frankish invasion out of the way, Marsile may then fail to keep his promise, and Charles will accordingly put Marsile’s hostages to death: “Asez est mielz qu’il i perdent les testes / Que nus perduns clere Espaigne, la bele” (“Far better that they should lose their heads / Than that we should lose fair Spain, the beautiful” [vv. 58–59]). It is clear that the Saragossans’ sole purpose at this point is to get the Frankish army out of their space. To them, losing Spain is the worst of all evils, to be avoided even at the cost of their sons’ lives. I have already pointed out the pivotal role played by Blancandrin in understanding and expressing the value of place, both in persuading the Saragossans to use all means necessary to maintain their connection to their city and in manipulating the Franks’ homesickness for France to get them to return home without capturing Saragossa. Blancandrin’s cunning derives from his awareness of how powerful human attachment to place can be; in this awareness he is matched only by Roland. The plan suggested by Blancandrin appears to be based on the belief that, once back in France, Charles will be unwilling to displace himself from his “best place,” Aix (“Quant cascuns ert a sun meillor repaire, / Carles serat ad Ais, a sa capele” [“When each man has returned to his favorite abode, / Charles will be in his chapel at Aix” (vv. 51–52)]). He will content himself with killing Marsile’s hostages. Thus, initially, Marsile is willing to incur a heavy loss in order to rid himself of Charles’s presence in his lands. As we can see, deceit is the Saracens’ intention from the beginning; Ganelon’s cooperation simply makes it possible to obtain what they want without incurring these losses. In a highly symbolic gesture, Marsile gives Ganelon the keys of the city (laisse 52), indicating that Ganelon now belongs to this place, having valued it over his own place of belonging. Even after plotting with Ganelon, the Saragossans’ plan does not seem well thought out. Their plan appears to be as follows: Mar-

162  La Chanson de Roland sile will falsely promise to convert and become Charles’s vassal, then kill Roland and annihilate the Frankish rearguard. But what next? Will Charles be so crushed by his losses that he will cease his wars? This is what one baron suggests in laisse 72. They fail to consider that Charles might wish to punish Marsile’s perfidy. This lack of strategic planning on the enemy’s part serves in part as a reflection of the story’s “circularity”: as in Roland’s comment about living up to his geste, the outcome of the story is known by all from the beginning. In this sense, the knowledge of the whole story informs the story as it plays out. We know from the beginning that Charles will end up avenging Roland’s death. From the exclusively Christian perspective of the poem, the Saracens’ plan is based on a logic of perfidy, according to which the will to vanquish and inflict harm overwhelms all other considerations, such as justice or even the fear of reprisal. The Saracens’ failure to think beyond their perfidious attack on the rearguard also emphasizes their single-minded purpose: to get Charles out of their place. Initially, all else is forgotten when faced with this imperative. Very soon, however, the will to free Spain of the Frankish presence turns into a more offensive posture. As they prepare for battle, the Saracens begin to contemplate the invasion of France, declaring to Marsile: “Tere Majur vos metrum en present. / Venez i, reis, sil verrez veirement: / L’empereor vos metrum en present” (“We’ll deliver the Fatherland over to you. / Come along, King, and you’ll see it for yourself: / We’ll deliver the emperor over to you” [vv. 952–54]). Margariz of Seville is even more specific: “Jusqu’a un an avrum France saisie, / Gesir porrum el burc de seint Denise” (“In a year’s time we shall be masters of France, / We shall be able to rest at Saint-Denis-en-France” [vv. 972–73]). In the same vein, Baligant also has no intention of limiting his plans to the defense of Saragossa: “Par tute Espaigne m’at fait guere mult grant, / En France dulce le voeil aler querant” (“He has waged a very great war against me throughout Spain, / I wish to seek him out now in fair France”

La Chanson de Roland  163 [vv. 2660–61]). While such pre-battle boasting is part of the conventional rhetoric of epic poetry, its particular focus on France here highlights nonetheless the importance of place in the SaracenChristian conflict. The Saracens’ desire to conquer France is inspired by memory: they wish to undo what Charles’s grandfather, Charles the Hammer, accomplished at the Battle of Poitiers in 732. Indeed, the memory of Charles the Hammer’s victory in driving the Saracens out of France underlies the spatial structure of the entire poem. The Saracens remember that France was once theirs, and this memory motivates their desire to reconquer France; Charles remembers what his grandfather did and strives to serve his memory faithfully by honoring and defending France. (Thierry follows the same model of fidelity in defending Roland’s memory.)26 Besides participating in this remembrance of Charles the Hammer, Roland alone fully grasps the truth about the value of Saragossa: if Charles allows the Saragossans’ connection to place to remain intact, they will draw strength from this connection, for place is indeed a source of great strength. To capture Saragossa is not simply a matter of imperialist aggression or sinful excess (as one of Charles’s barons argued against Roland), it is ultimately a matter of defending the integrity of France, as the Saracens’ comments show.

Ganelon While the Saracens would have deceived Charles without Ganelon, the latter’s willingness to betray his lord out of hatred for Roland is what allows them to change their posture from a pure26. Roland participates in this fidelity to Charles the Hammer, not only by defending France against the Saracens but also by understanding fully the loyal service expected of him as the emperor’s vassal. Charles the Hammer invented the idea of a trained national army who, in exchange for money and lands, would render loyal service to their king. Roland, to the last, places this loyal service to the emperor above his attachment to the worldly goods associated with place (lands, family, money). He knows that when these attachments supersede the value of loyal service, the fief system founded by Charles the Hammer breaks down.

164  La Chanson de Roland ly defensive plan (falsely promising to convert in order to get the Franks out of Spain) to an offensive one (attacking the rearguard). It is Ganelon who focalizes the Saracens’ attention upon the person of Roland. When he goes as Charles’s messenger to meet Blancandrin, the latter focuses on what is for him the central concern: Charles’s bothersome presence within their space, “Que nus requert ça en la nostre marche?” (“What does he seek from us here in our land?” [v. 374]). But Ganelon immediately turns the conversation to Roland’s thirst for conquest and willingness to die at every moment (“Li soens orgoilz le devreit ben cunfundre, / Kar chascun jur de mort s’abandunet. / Seit ki l’ociet, tute pais puis avriumes” [“His madness will surely bring him to ruin, / For he risks his life each day. / If someone were to kill him, then we would have real peace” (v. 389–91)]), designating Roland as the source of continued war. These striking words are at the crux of Ganelon’s deception, and they motivate Roland’s entire plot. Only when Ganelon convinces the Saracens that killing Roland will bring peace do they begin to plot Roland’s demise. Not surprisingly, the reasons given by both men to explain why Roland must die revolve around the hero’s attitude toward space. Ganelon stokes the Saracens’ hatred of Roland by recounting how he once presented an apple to Charlemagne, declaring “De trestuz reis vos present les curunes” (“I present you with the crowns of all the kings” [v. 388]). Blancandrin cunningly exacerbates Ganelon’s hatred by reiterating the same idea: “Mult est pesmes Rollant, / Ki tute gent voelt faire recreant / E tutes teres met en chalengement!” (“Roland is a maniac / To want to subdue all peoples / And assert a claim to all lands!” [vv. 392–94, emphasis added]). Roland indeed represents a challenge and a threat to all pagan lands, and this appears to be one reason behind Ganelon’s hatred for him. Why does Roland’s relationship to space pose a problem for Ganelon? When Roland urges Charles to avenge Basile and Basan (killed by Marsile) by besieging Saragossa, he suggests that it may take a

La Chanson de Roland  165 lifetime: “En Sarraguce menez vostre ost banie, / Metez le sege a tute vostre vie, / Si vengez cels que li fels fist ocire!” (“Lead the army you have summoned to Saragossa, / Lay siege to the city, to the end of your days,27 / And avenge those the villain had killed!” [vv. 211– 13]). Ganelon is outraged by Roland’s fearlessness with regard to death: “Ki ço vos lodet que cest plait degetuns, / ne li chalt, sire, de quel mort nus murjuns” (“Then anyone who advises you to reject such an offer / Doesn’t care, sire, how we die” [vv. 226–27]). His actions indicate that returning alive to France is Ganelon’s foremost consideration. When Roland designates him as messenger to Marsile, he is full of anguish at the prospect (v. 280). Taking leave of the Franks, his words reflect nostalgia for home: En dulce France, seignurs, vos en irez: De meie part ma muiller saluëz, E Pinabel, mun ami e mun per, E Baldewin, mun filz que vos savez (vv. 360–63)

You will return to fair France, my lords: Greet my wife for me And Pinabel, my friend and my peer, And Baldwin, my son whom you all know.

In laisse 134, Ganelon tries to dissuade Charles from responding to the sound of Roland’s horn by evoking Roland’s excessive behavior in battle and then reminding Charles of home. Ganelon’s “reasonable” desire to save his own life and return home peacefully is directly thwarted by Roland’s extreme willingness to give his life to defend the value of space. Therein lies the impetus for Ganelon’s betrayal. Thus, Ganelon and Roland are both impelled by their love for France. By understanding the importance of place for these two characters, we can perceive more clearly the forces guiding them 27. I prefer to read “a tute vostre vie” of verse 212 temporally and have therefore amended slightly Brault’s translation (“put all your heart into it”).

166  La Chanson de Roland and recognize that their intense animosity arises from a conjunction of similarity and dissimilarity: the similarity of their mutual love for France combined with their fiercely divergent views of how this love is best served. Ganelon places his desire for a peaceful return to France above all notions of duty or service. When Roland stands in the way of his wish to be safe and comfortable, Ganelon’s rage causes him, initially, to seek revenge against Roland as an individual. Soon, however, the desire for revenge expands into a knowing betrayal of France and its figurehead, Charlemagne: “La gent de France iert blecee e blesmie ..... Chi purreit faire que Rollant i fust mort, Dunc perdreit Carles le destre braz del cors, Si remeindreient les merveilluses oz ..... Tere Major remeindreit en repos” (vv. 590, 596–98, 600)

“The men from France will be battered and bruised ..... If one could cause Roland to die, Then Charles would lose his right arm from his body, His formidable enemies would cease to exist ..... The Fatherland would remain in peace.”

In this way, Ganelon illustrates the dangers of a disproportionate attachment to the worldly comforts of place. These comforts must be subservient to place’s deeper function of serving a higher ideal and connecting a people to God. Through his all-consuming desire to return to France, Ganelon empties France of much of its value, as Charles understands: “Par Guenelun serat destruite France” (“France will be destroyed by Ganelon” [v. 835]). Roland’s attachment to France, while just as powerful as Ganelon’s, expresses itself in an entirely different manner.

A Place of Memory: Roland When in the initial laisses of the poem Charles and his barons deliberate Marsile’s offer to convert and become his vassal, an in-

La Chanson de Roland  167 teresting commentary on feudalism develops. Essentially, Marsile suggests that he be allowed to continue to hold his lands, with a slight change in title: instead of being the sole power, he will officially hold his lands from Charles or, as Charles says, “de mei tendrat ses marches” (“hold his marches as fiefs from me” [v. 190]). Roland immediately grasps the problem with this arrangement. First of all, Marsile has proven himself unworthy of trust not only by failing to honor such an arrangement in the past, but by putting Charles’s messengers to death. Furthermore, accepting Marsile’s offer would leave the Saracen king’s connection to his lands intact, albeit transferred in name only, to Charles. Roland advocates breaking Marsile’s ties to Saragossa once and for all, implying that this is the only way to put an end to the king’s betrayals. According to this reasoning, the feudal system (a system instituted by Charles the Hammer and based on the exchange of lands—of place—for loyalty) runs a constant danger of breaking down, because it allows potential enemies to maintain their ties to place.28 From the beginning, Roland understands the power which can be drawn from these ties. As we have seen, place is meaningful to people. It connects them to their past, their memory, their families, and their loved ones. Roland knows that Marsile will remain a formidable enemy for the Franks as long as he retains his connection to Saragossa. Roland’s will to continue the fight for the city is seen by the other Franks, led by Ganelon, as excessive. In reaction to Ganelon’s speech (laisse 15), Roland shows his contempt by designating him as messenger to Marsile when Charles refuses to let Roland himself go. The exchange that ensues does indeed show a fiercely intense Roland: the hero laughs contemptuously at Ganelon’s anger, mocking him and goading him on to revenge (v. 302). This rare incidence of laughter in the poem stands out in its incongruity, offer28. For a discussion of feudalism in the French epic, cf. George B. Fundenburg, Feudal France in the French Epic: A Study of Feudal French Institutions in History and Poetry (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1918). For a historical analysis of feudalism, cf. Susan Reynolds, Fiefs and Vassals (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994).

168  La Chanson de Roland ing evidence of what some scholars have interpreted as démesure, or sinful pride, on Roland’s part.29 (Indeed, Roland’s laughter in this scene led André Burger to comment, “It is his contemptuous laughter which set off, irreparably, the drama of Roncevaux.”)30 In another instance of the circularity previously noted, Roland seems to know in advance what Ganelon will do to him, and takes pleasure in provoking Ganelon’s betrayal. The other Franks characterize Roland’s desire to pursue the conquest as “fols” (v. 229), “pecchet” (v. 240), just as the idea of punishing Ganelon at the end of the poem is termed “fols” (v. 3804). Roland’s behavior is, invariably, impassionate and absolute. If the behavior of those surrounding him is the mesure by which he is judged, he is indeed démesuré, but this immoderateness should be understood in the most positive sense. As one who embodies faultlessly the virtue of prouesse, he understands that death is not the worst thing that can happen to him—an understanding difficult for both his fellow Franks and for scholars! Roland mirrors the saint in that he is both fully human and at the same time somehow extra-human. He fulfills his humanity more perfectly, more absolutely, than most. This characteristic of extra-humanity is shared by Alexis and Tristan. All three characters (like Aude and Thierry) inhabit the world in an extraordinary manner, and their behavior is often deemed excessive or prideful by those around them. Roland’s laugh29. On Roland’s démesure, in particular with regard to his refusal to summon Charles’s aid by blowing his horn, cf. Alfred Foulet, “Is Roland Guilty of Desmesure?” Romance Philology 10 (1957): 145–48; Alain Renoir, “Roland’s Lament: Its Meaning and Function in the Chanson de Roland,” Speculum 35 (1960): 572–83; George F. Jones, “Roland’s Lament: A Divergent Interpretation,” The Romanic Review 53, no. 1 (1962): 3–15; D. D. R. Owen, “The Secular Inspiration of the Chanson de Roland,” Speculum 37 (1962): 390–400; Julian E. White, “La Chanson de Roland: Secular or Religious Inspiration?” Romania 84 (1963): 398–408; Pierre LeGentil, “A propos de la démesure de Roland,” Cahiers de Civilisation Médiévale 11 (1968), 203–9; Larry Crist, “A propos de la démesure dans la Chanson de Roland: quelques propos (démesurés?),” Olifant 1 (1973–74): 10–20; and Haidu, Subject of Violence, chap 4, esp. 76–81. 30. “C’est son rire méprisant qui a déclenché, irrémédiablement, le drame de Roncevaux.” Burger, “Le rire de Roland,” Cahiers de civilisation médiévale 3 (1960): 2–11, quotation on 11.

La Chanson de Roland  169 ter at this tense moment, as well as his fearless prouesse in the face of death, serve to highlight that he perceives life and death differently from ordinary human beings. Roland is identified first and foremost as a conqueror for his emperor, Charles. This identification is seemingly agreed upon by all: himself, Charles, the Franks, and their enemies. To support his argument against accepting Marsile’s offer, Roland reminds Charles, “Je vos cunquis e Noples e Commibles, / Pris ai Valterne e la tere de Pine / E Balasgued e Tuele e Sezilie” (“I conquered Noples and Commibles for you, / I took Valterne and the land of Pine, / Balaguer, Tudela, and Sezille” [vv. 198–200]). Echoing Blancandrin’s sentiment that Roland “tutes teres met en chalengement” (v. 394), Roland evokes in his dying moments the lands he conquered with Durendal, his sword, remembering, “Cunquis l’en ai païs e teres tantes, / Que Carles tient, ki ad la barbe blanche” (“With it I conquered so many countries and lands / Over which white-bearded Charles rules” [vv. 2333–34]). The list of lands conquered by Roland is eleven lines long (vv. 2322–32), and in laisse 209, Charles expresses his fear that many of these same lands will rebel against him, now that Roland is dead. Charles thus mourns Roland’s death: “Morz est mis niés, ki tant me fist cunquere” (“My nephew, through whom I conquered so much, is dead” [v. 2920]). In this way, Roland is strongly characterized by his relationship to space outside of France. As the prime representative of the Frankish conquests, he becomes the focal point for the Saracens’ hatred. They vie for Marsile’s permission to kill him, knowing that “Se Rollant vit, nostre guerre novelet” (“If Roland lives, our war begins anew” [v. 2118]). Roland’s relationship to space is one of domination and mediation: domination because Roland is a threatening conqueror of any space not yet ruled by Charlemagne; mediation because he does not conquer for himself but for the emperor. Roland’s mastery over foreign lands must be placed in the greater context of his servitude to Charles. In turn, Charles is both master of his lands

170  La Chanson de Roland and servant of God. Both Roland and Charles relate to space—both foreign lands and home—as willing servants of a purpose higher than themselves, unlike Ganelon, who serves only his own selfinterest as a feudal lord, or the Saracens, who respond only to promises of riches.31 While Roland’s identity as conqueror of foreign lands has its origin in prior events, his geste at Roncevaux increasingly links him more specifically with Spain. As I have noted, Charles worries several times about having left his nephew “as porz d’Espaigne” (v. 824); after Roland’s death, he laments, “Cum en Espaigne venis mal seignur!” (v. 2900). The space of Spain is inextricably linked with Roland’s death and, henceforth, Roland’s story. His passage into the borderlands of Spain serves as the signal that the battle of Roncevaux is about to begin: “As porz d’Espaigne en est passet Rollant” (v. 1152). Instead of longing to be home, Roland values most highly being here: in this story, here is Roncevaux. When Olivier informs him that the Saracens are arriving for battle, Roland responds: “E Deus la nus otreit! / Ben devuns ci estre pur nostre rei” (“May God grant it to us! / We must make a stand here for our king” [vv. 1008–9, emphasis added]). In contrast with the other Franks, who are overcome with homesickness, Roland is fully present in his space. He refuses to cede the space he has conquered, declaring to Turpin, “Pur vostre amur ici prendrai estal” (“For love of you, I shall make 31. Two parallel scenes reveal this dynamic. In the first, Charles and Baligant confront one another. Baligant, after having urged his men on with promises of riches (laisse 45), speaks to Charles in the following words: “A mult grant tort mun païs me calenges. / Deven mes hom, en fiet le te voeill rendre, / Ven mei servir d’ici qu’en Orïente” (“You very unjustly challenge my right to this country. / Become my vassal and I shall give it back to you as a fief. / Come serve me from here to the Orient” [vv. 3592–94]). Charles responds thus: “Receif la lei que Deus nos apresentet, / Chrestïentet, e pui te amerai sempres” (“Accept the religion that God reveals to us, / Namely Christianity, then I shall care for you forthwith” [vv. 3597–98]). In the second scene, Thierry battles Pinabel. Pinabel offers riches to Thierry to reconcile Ganelon with Charles (laisse 283), but Thierry persists, offering only to reconcile Pinabel with Charles, but not Ganelon. In both scenes, one side appeals to material interests, while the other fights for a purpose beyond himself.

La Chanson de Roland  171 a stand here” [v. 2139, emphasis added]). His occupation of space is so strong that the Saracen army leaves him the field, daring only to shoot arrows at him (laisse 160–61). The arrows kill his horse but cannot reach Roland’s body. He wishes to follow his enemies as they flee, but he cannot do so without his horse. He is now firmly planted in the space he has conquered and in which he will die. As Turpin then proclaims, the field is theirs (“Cist camp est vostre, mercit Deu, vostre e mien” [v. 2183]). While Roland seems incapable of moving from it, he is free to move within it as he wishes. Turpin’s words reveal the need to make foreign space familiar, thus reestablishing a sense of spatial belonging. Roland immediately begins moving about the field, gathering the bodies of the dead Franks, imposing on chaotic space the order and meaning of place. There is a ritualistic quality to Roland’s search: he goes back and forth, picking up the scattered bodies, reassembling them into a France of the dead. Place and ritual mutually reinforce one another: the battle-space is sacred because of what has happened there, but Roland’s actions infuse it with the implicit ordering of memory, thus ensuring that its sacredness, and his place in it, will be known beyond his death. Once his space is prepared for memory, his work is finished. He can mourn his friends (vv. 2215–17) and begin the process of his own death. In Roland’s dying scene, spatial movement plays an essential role. After having lamented Turpin’s death “a la lei de sa tere” (“as is customary in his land” [v. 2251]), he prays for his peers and for himself, then takes his olifant and sword and moves “devers Espaigne” (“in the direction of Spain” [v. 2266]), on a hilltop. The narrator specifies that he does this so that no one can reproach him (“que reproce n’en ait” [v. 2263]). Roland does not move toward home but purposefully moves toward Spain, posing himself as a threat to the enemy. (His elevated position also recalls his stance in laisse 55, before the battle.) In addition, he places himself in fallow land, on grounds that have been worked but not yet seeded. Perhaps Roland himself is the seed that will grow and bear fruit, through the artistry of this

172  La Chanson de Roland poem. The ground that has been labored reflects the presence of man in the landscape, as do the four shaped marble blocks nearby. Thus, through spatiality, the notions of human labor and workmanship insinuate themselves into this opening of Roland’s death scene, serving perhaps as subtle reminders of the poet’s craft. Roland then kills a lingering Saracen who, thinking the hero was dead, tried to take his sword. Roland grips his olifant which, the narrator tells us, he never wants to lose (“que unkes perdre ne volt” [v. 2287]) (reminding us that the horn represents his sole means of remaining connected to Charles and to France). Fearing that the enemy might take his sword after his death and use it for evil, he repeatedly tries to break it on the marble blocks but fails. He then moves again, running under a pine tree and lying face down on his sword and horn, turning his face toward “la paiene gent” (“pagan army” [v. 2360]). Once again, he faces Spain in order to ensure his memory, “Pur ço l’at fait que il voelt veirement / Que Carles diet e trestute sa gent, / Li gentilz quens, qu’il fut mort cunquerant” (“He did this because he earnestly desires / That Charles and all his men say / That the noble Count died as a conqueror” [vv. 2361–63]). As Roland asks God to forgive his sins, the narrator specifies that Roland lies on a pointed summit. His ascending spatial positioning (from battlefield to hilltop to summit) parallels his spiritual movement toward heaven. Later, when Charles arrives at Roncevaux, he remembers that Roland told him he would take such a position in death, again signaling the hero’s Christ-like desire to fulfill his role to the last: D’une raisun oï Rollant parler: Ja ne murreit en estrange regnet Ne trespassast ses hume e ses pers: Vers lur païs avreit sun chef turnet; Cunquerrantment si finereit li bers (vv. 2863–67)

I heard Roland make a statement: He would never die in a foreign land

La Chanson de Roland  173 Without going beyond his men and his peers, He would have his head turned toward enemy country, The brave knight would meet his end as a conqueror.

Roland’s dying scene shows us how, even in his last moments of life, Roland’s gaze does not turn toward home but remains resolutely fixed on the space of the other. This powerful self-identification with foreign space might lead us to infer a lack of attachment on Roland’s part to his home, France. In reality, Roland is intensely connected to France, but in a unique manner quite different from that of the other Franks. First of all, we can understand “France” in this poem as not only the physical kingdom of France, but as symbol for the whole of Christendom (Charles’s empire). In this sense, the conquest of Spain represents not so much a conquest of foreign lands as a reconquest of lands that are, in spirit, truly France. Roland’s gaze towards Spain reflects, therefore, his determination to make France whole by returning it to Charles and thus to God. Most of the poem’s initial indications of homesickness on the part of the Franks do not include Roland. When the others are shown focusing on the idea of returning home, Roland is portrayed as separate, as in laisse 55. From the perspective of spatial symbolism, it is significant that Roland remains in the rearguard, closest to Spain, more intent on guarding against threats coming from the enemy than on looking forward to his homecoming. As he rides across the Spanish borders to battle, his face is “cler e riant” (“open and smiling” [v. 1159]), and he is described as having a double gaze: “Vers Sarrazins reguardet fierement / E vers Franceis humeles e dulcement” (“He looks fiercely toward the Saracens / And amicably and gently toward the French” [vv. 1162–63]). This double gaze, one humble and one proud, one turned upon his own and one upon the enemy, reveals the nature of Roland’s relationship to each of these spaces. His first thought is to proudly defy the enemy, but just behind (indeed, coexisting alongside) this defiance is a sense of humility. For Roland, his fierceness as a warrior is part of the humble service he

174  La Chanson de Roland renders to France. From this conjunction of pride and humility, he seems to derive great joy, as shown by his smiling face. Roland is so deeply connected to France that, in a presentiment of his death, the entire space of France trembles and shakes (laisse 110). En France en ad mult merveillus turment: Orez i ad de tuneire e de vent, Pluie e gresilz desmesureement; Chiedent i fuildres e menut e suvent, E terremoete ço i ad veirement. De Seint Michel del Peril josqu’as Seinz, Des Besentun tresqu’as porz de Guitsand, Nen ad recet dunt del mur ne cravent. Cuntre midi tenebres i ad granz, N’i ad clartet, se li ceils nen i fent. Hume nel veit ki mult ne s’espoënt. Dient plusor: “Ço est li definement, La fin del secle, ki nus est en present!” Il nel sevent, ne dient veir nïent: Ço est li granz dulors por la mort de Rollant (vv. 1423–37)

In France there is a very terrifying disturbance: Thunder and windstorms, Rain and hail to excess; Lightning strikes in rapid succession over and over again, Indeed there is an earthquake. From Saint-Michel-du-Péril to Sens, From Besançon to the port of Wissant, All the fortress walls come tumbling down. At high noon the heavens cloud over completely, There is no light except when the sky is rent by lightning. No one sees this without becoming very terrified. Many say: “This is the end of all things, The end of the world that we are witnessing!” They do not know, they do not talk sense: This is the great mourning for the death of Roland.

La Chanson de Roland  175 This scene is of course reminiscent of the moment of Christ’s death; its points of divergence from this model reveal by contrast the unique characteristics of Roland’s demise. First, the earth reacts as the battle begins, before the hero’s death. This premonitory power of France shows how profound are the bonds between Roland and place. Moreover, the earth does not quake where the actual death takes place, but in Roland’s homeland. Just as Christ’s death on Calvary causes the temple curtain to be rent in two, the walls of France break, indicating that the space of France is Roland’s temple, his sacred center. Lastly, while until now the Franks’ belonging to France was primarily characterized by their bonds to loved ones, we see here that Roland is united not only with the people of France but with its physical space on the Earth itself. In this scene, as for Christ’s death, the Earth understands what the people, believing that the end of the world has come, cannot: the devastating loss of Roland’s death. It is only after Roland has fatally blown the horn and senses the approach of death that his thoughts turn to France. Looking upon the dead Franks, he laments France’s loss, declaring, “Tere de France, mult estes dulz païs, / Oi desertet a tant ruboste exill” (“Land of France, you are a very sweet realm, / Today made desolate by such a cruel disaster!” [vv. 1861–62]). After this brief reflective pause, Roland returns to battle. He continues to fight until the field is won, focusing only on what needs to be accomplished in order to ensure the memory of his geste at Roncevaux. His last words evoke his conquests, not nostalgia for his country or his loved ones. It is only when he falls silent that he can recall these things: De plusurs choses a remembrer li prist: De tantes teres cume li bers cunquist, De dulce France, des humes de sun lign, De Carlemagne, sun seignor, kil nurrit. Ne poet muër n’en plurt e ne suspirt (vv. 2377–81)

176  La Chanson de Roland He began to remember many things: The many lands he conquered as a brave knight, Fair France, the men from whom he is descended, Charlemagne, his lord, who raised him. He cannot help weeping and sighing.

After this brief interlude, however, Roland purposefully turns from his nostalgic thoughts—seen as a form of self-forgetting—in order to pray for forgiveness: “Mais lui meïsme ne volt mettre en ubli” (“But he does not wish to forget himself ” [v. 2382]).32 Thus, we perceive an essential characteristic of Roland’s connection to France: the nature of this union is but rarely reflected upon or voiced by Roland himself. The depth of the bond is unquestionable, but it must continuously be directed towards and expressed through action, not reflection.33 The sole aspect of Roland’s bond with France that deeply concerns Roland himself is the question of memory. As I have already noted, Roland is highly conscious of accomplishing his geste properly so that it may be remembered in France. When he realizes that there will be a battle, he encourages his troops to fight boldly so that no “evil” song could be sung about them, “Que malvaise cançun de nus chantet ne seit!” (v. 1014). Roland repeatedly expresses the importance of ensuring his memory: if he blows the horn, “En dulce France en perdreie mon los” (“I would lose my good name in fair France!” [v. 1054]); “Ne placet Damnedeu / Que mi parent pur mei seient blasmet / Ne France dulce ja cheet en viltet!” (“May it not please the Lord God / That my kinsmen incur reproaches on my account, / Or that fair France should ever fall into disgrace!” [vv. 1062–64]); “Ja n’en avrunt reproece mi parent” (“My kinsmen shall never incur reproaches” [v. 1076]); “Que ja pur mei per32. Brault supplements the text’s literal meaning in his translation of this line: “But he does not wish to forget prayers for his own soul.” 33. Within this perspective, the reflective and emotional function accomplished by Charles complements Roland’s more active role, as does, in oppositional terms, Olivier’s sagesse.

La Chanson de Roland  177 det sa valur France!” (“That France lose its worth on my account!” [v. 1090]); “Que dulce France par nus ne seit hunie!” (“So that fair France not incur reproach on our account!” [v. 1927]). Besides reflecting Roland’s awareness of his duty, as miles christi, to fulfill his geste much as Christ fulfilled scripture,34 we can see a progression in these exclamations from fear of personal dishonor to the dread of dishonoring family and country by one’s actions.

The Pla ce of a Hero We have seen then the different ways in which place is meaningful for the characters of the Song of Roland. The examples of the Franks, Ganelon, the Saracens, and even Charles show how human attachment to place, although comforting and motivational, can sometimes cloud one’s judgment or exert an overly powerful influence, causing one to make poor decisions (as do Charles and the Franks), or to act unjustly (as do the Saracens). Roland, the poem’s central figure, stands alone in his understanding of how forceful human attachment to place can be. He understands that place affects not only the motivations of his enemies but also his own ability to carry out his duties as a soldier. Roland knows that he must not hold too dear the many affective associations of France or they will cause him to neglect his calling as a conqueror of lands. For him, true belonging to place can only be accomplished in death, through memory. Within this perspective, the poem itself becomes, for Roland and the Franks who died with him, a restored place, quite the opposite of any male cançun. The poem defines and restores the place it calls dulce France. 34. Erich Auerbach’s discussion of figural interpretation and its role in medieval art seems particularly pertinent here: Roland’s death is what Auerbach calls an “individual earthly event [that] is not regarded as a definitive self-sufficient reality, nor as a link in a chain of development in which single events or combinations of events perpetually give rise to new events, but viewed primarily in immediate vertical connection with a divine order that encompasses it.” “Figura,” trans. Ralph Manheim, in Scenes from the Drama of European Literature: Six Essays (Gloucester, Mass.: Peter Smith, 1973), 11–76, quotation on 72.

178  La Chanson de Roland Thus, Roland’s belonging to place can be thought of as a deferred attachment. As the premonitory earthquake in France, Roland’s unswerving loyalty to Charles, and the faithful witness given by Aude and Thierry plainly show, the bonds of attachment between Roland and France are powerfully present from the beginning. They guide Roland’s every action. Yet, with an unbending determination that is somehow superhuman or otherworldly (unachievable even for the great Charles), Roland keeps these bonds at a distance, renouncing their comfort and joy. In his acute awareness of the geste to which he is called, he realizes that his union with France can only be fulfilled through his own death. In this manner, he indicates that the place of a hero lies not in life, but in memory.35 Within this context of interdependence among man, God, and place, which we see in both Alexis and Roland and in the historical realities of medieval pilgrimage and crusade, the Tristan legend appears as a sort of aberration. In Tristan, the ties uniting man to place are extremely problematic, and correspondingly, so are those between man and God. The radical difference, from the perspective of place, that separates Tristan from the dominant instincts of its time hints at the transgressive, subversive nature of this legend. Indeed, many contemporary authors were troubled by Tristan and opposed it as best they could. They were right to worry. After Tristan, place would never be the same again. 35. Farnham, “Romanesque Design,” emphasizes Roland’s martyrdom and the immediate—and unique in the poem—vertical movement of his soul into heaven after death. As martyr, Roland acts as “a witness (Gr. martys) to the overwhelming truth of the spiritual world, the worth of which he, by his death, unquestioningly asserts” (163). In this sense, heaven is also Roland’s place, although its characteristics remain unknown to us.

3  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion

wie kunde man mich vinden? ine kan ez niht erdenken wie: man suoche dâ, sô bin ich hie; man suoche hie, sô bin ich dâ: wie vindet man mich oder wâ? wâ man mich vinde? dâ ich bin: diu lant enloufent niender hin; sô bin ich in den landen, dâ vinde man Tristanden Gottfried von Strassburg’s Tristan, vv. 19518–26

How could anyone find me? I cannot fathom how. If a man sought there I would be here, if he sought here I would be there. How or where shall one find me? Where am I to be found? Here, where I am—countries do not run away from one, and I am in those countries—so let Tristan be found there!

The legend of Tristan and Iseut has reached us through multiple, sometimes fragmentary, textual manifestations and wide-ranging poetic and linguistic traditions. Because of this textual diversity, I will take a broader approach with this medieval legend than I have done with the Life of Saint Alexis and the Song of Roland. The many versions of the legend begin with Marie de France’s Le Lai du chèvrefeuille (ca. 1165), the fragmentary Old French

179

180  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion verse romances of Thomas (ca. 1170), Béroul (ca. 1180), and the Folies Tristan of Oxford and Bern (ca. 1185), and continue through various verse and prose “translations” well into the fifteenth century. I have chosen to focus mainly on the legend’s early French versions in verse, with particular attention given to the longer poems of Béroul (henceforth referred to as B) and Thomas (T). I have also given close attention to B and T’s close corollaries; namely, the Middle High German versions of Eilhart von Oberg (E) and Gottfried von Straßburg (G). Beyond their intrinsic interest, these texts offer portions of the narrative that have not survived in B and T, such as the story of Tristan’s birth and childhood. The corpus of tales and romances informed by the legend of Tristan and Iseut vary in form, in time period, in language, and in episodes told and episodes eliminated. Each poet who “tells” the story frames it within different spaces and infuses it with a unique sense of place. Nevertheless, each tale invariably recounts the illegitimate love of Tristan and Iseut and how this love is intimately related to death. A legend is a story that, although told in various manners by different romancers, consistently implements a given and limited set of motifs and narrative possibilities. In each version of the legend, these motifs are subservient to an unvarying paradigmatic view without which the legend would no longer be itself. In Tristan and Iseut’s case, this paradigmatic core is the oxymoronic connection between the love generated by a magical potion and death. Keeping in mind the above characterization of a legend, I would like to explore another aspect of Tristan and Iseut that is just as constitutive as the widely discussed love/death connection and reaches a deeper, perhaps more fundamental level of the story: the portrayal of the spatial and emotional dislocation experienced by its main character, Tristan. Tristan and Iseut differs essentially from the Song of Roland and the Life of Saint Alexis, as well as most other texts of its time, in that its protagonist is radically disconnected from a sense of belonging to place.

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  181 Merritt Blakeslee has pointed out that the legend of Tristan and Iseut divides naturally into two halves, the “romance of Tristan” and the “romance of Tristan and Iseut.”1 The first “half ” tells the story of Tristan’s origins, childhood, and youth. It begins with the tale of his parents, Rivalin and Blanchefleur, recounts his reunion with his maternal uncle, King Mark, and ends with his decision to confront Morholt on Mark’s behalf (a decision that eventually brings him into contact with Iseut, Morholt’s niece). The second “half ” (which is in fact much longer than the first) begins with Tristan’s battle against Morholt, Iseut’s beloved uncle, and ends with the lovers’ death. Alongside this division, I propose a second manner of dividing the legend, with the pivotal moment coming not with the lovers’ first meeting but with their drinking of the love potion. When the lovers drink the potion, the legend shifts from conventional romance to something radically new: a tale driven by the dark forces of magic and fate. I will follow this truth as organizing principle and divide my exploration of Tristan and Iseut into two “halves,” or chapters. The first will deal with the story before the drinking of the potion and the second from that crucial moment to the story’s end. The first “half ” of the story can be divided into three parts: first, Tristan’s “prehistory,” or the story of his parents; second, his birth, childhood, and youth both in his homeland and at Mark’s court; third, the lovers’ “prehistory,” or their story from their meeting until they drink the potion. Corresponding to these three parts are three basic spatial frameworks. First, Rivalin (and Tristan’s) homeland, Parmenie; second, Mark (and Blanchefleur’s) homeland, Cornwall; third, Iseut’s homeland, Ireland. In fact, the first two parts of the first half—Tristan’s story before coming into contact with Iseut’s uncle, Morholt—shift back and forth between Cornwall and Parmenie multiple times. The transition between spatial frameworks occurs each time with a sea voyage: Blanchefleur’s sailing from Cornwall 1. Merritt R. Blakeslee, Love’s Masks: Identity, Intertextuality and Meaning in the Old French Tristan Poems (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1989), 8.

182  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion to Parmenie with her unborn son, Tristan; Tristan’s accidental voyage from Parmenie to Cornwall; Tristan’s journey from Cornwall to Ireland. (This brief summary already reveals the central role played by the sea in Tristan’s story.) For this first half, the German sources are essential, because these parts of the story are missing from the French sources. The second half of the legend (from the drinking of the potion on) also falls into three parts, structured by three basic spatial frameworks. First, the lovers carry on their passion at Mark’s court, arranging secret meetings and evading diverse traps set for them by the king’s barons. Second, they together leave society and live isolated in the Morois forest. Third, Iseut is reconciled with King Mark, and Tristan is banished from the king’s lands. In this third and last stage, the lovers are spatially separated and can only see each other through sporadic and dangerous clandestine visits. The end of each phase is punctuated by a pivotal “hinge” episode: joint judgment and banishment by an irate King Mark; reconciliation after Mark’s discovery of the sleeping lovers; and finally, death. Since there exist numerous poetic accounts of this second half of the legend, I will take a more general perspective in chapter 4 than in chapter 3, calling upon the different versions of the legend to illustrate particular points. Between these two halves lies the legend’s most archetypal moment: the drinking of the love potion. This episode serves as a hinge between the two very different halves of the legend and marks its transformation from fairly typical hero’s tale into the legend of love and death remembered to this day. Its distinctness and significance are marked spatially, for the episode occurs not on land but at sea, on the waters between Ireland and Cornwall (once again echoing the sea’s centrality as place in the legend). My study of space and place in the Tristan legend differs from those of Alexis and Roland, for at least two reasons. First, while I was able to work from a single version of the first two poems, I have cho-

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  183 sen to work from several versions of Tristan, in part because of significant textual lacunae in the French texts, and in part because no single version stands out as authoritative or superior. Textual variations make a coherent, text-based study of spatiality such as that I present for Alexis and Roland impractical for Tristan. Second, and most importantly, place takes on a very different role in Tristan than it did in Roland or Alexis. Tristan’s radical uniqueness with regard to place holds true for all early verse versions of the legend, despite variations. Instead of portraying place as a consistent, underlying presence that exerts powerful influence over the protagonist and his story, the various poets of the Tristan story problematize place’s absence. They tell us what happens when the anchoring ties of place are missing, or at least severely deficient. As I examine this legend, I will sketch broadly how space and place are put to use by the Tristan poets, both in particular episodes and overall. From a comparison of this sketch with the first two chapters, we will gain an understanding of the revolutionary change that Tristan and Iseut brought to the concept of place.2 Tristan’s predominant traits are his troubled and highly ambivalent belonging to family and homeland and his corresponding exile. The factors contributing to these traits are established very early for the protagonist, indeed even before his birth. The circumstances of his birth and childhood strengthen these factors of rootlessness and precarious belonging. The first part of this chapter discusses Tristan’s origins: the story of his parents, conception, birth, 2. Following Jean-Charles Payen’s notion that the later prose versions of Tristan represent in some sort a conjuration of the aspects of the Tristan myth found subversive by Christian orthodoxy and poets such as Chrétien de Troyes (see Payen, “Lancelot contre Tristan: la conjuration d’un mythe subversif (réflexions sur l’ideologie romanesque au Moyen Âge),” in Mélanges de langue et de littérature médiévales offerts à Pierre le Gentil (Paris: S.E.D.E.S., 1973), 617–32), I contend that the prose Tristan drastically transforms precisely the facets of the legend that interest me here (uprootedness, dislocation, problematic belonging). For this reason, I limit my analysis of Tristan and Iseut to the early versified versions of the legend. The worthwhile question of how place is transformed from the verse to the prose versions will, I hope, inspire future scholarly endeavors, but will not be examined here.

184  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion and childhood. It examines how these origins, and the modes of belonging they reveal, create a foundation that informs other aspects of Tristan’s story. The second part of this chapter considers Tristan and Iseut as they are depicted before they drink the potion, both as individuals and in relationship to each other. Chapter 4 considers the legend from the moment the lovers drink the potion, giving special attention to their love as a lasting, if highly problematic, form of belonging. Chapter 4 also studies the role played by the two “betrayed spouse” figures of the legend, who act as the legend’s main representatives of place: King Mark and Iseut of the White Hands. As I have mentioned, my study of Tristan will look different from that of Alexis and Roland. Because belonging is so problematic in Tristan, the reader must reflect upon the various ways in which Tristan might have found a place of belonging but did not. As we saw in our study of Alexis and Roland, place is constituted not just by space but by a multiplicity of factors, notably, family and community, and the systems of belief (cultural, religious, etc.) in which they participate. Despite textual variations, we can look to the same factors for our study of place in Tristan. They will guide us to a better understanding of place’s functioning—and dysfunctioning—in the legend.3

Tristan ’s “Prehistory ”: Generalitie s For the present examination of Tristan’s origins, I will refer primarily to Gottfried von Straßburg’s Tristan (ca. 1210), ostensibly an adaptation of Thomas’s Old French version of the legend.4 This 3. For excellent general studies of Tristan and Iseut, cf. Pierre Jonin, Les Personnages féminins dans les romans français de Tristan au XIIe siècle (Aix-en Provence: Ophrys, 1958); Emmanuèle Baumgartner, Tristan et Iseut. De la légende aux récits en vers (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1987); and Blakeslee (Love’s Masks). The Pléiade edition (Tristan et Yseut: Les premières Versions européennes, ed. Christiane Marchello-Nizia, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade [Paris: Gallimard, 1995]) and Joan Tasker Grimbert, ed., Tristan and Isolde: A Casebook (New York: Garland, 1995) are also useful sources. 4. This section on the generalities of Tristan’s prehistory expands upon an article

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  185 part of the tale has survived neither in Thomas’s nor Béroul’s earlier Old French poems. I will also make reference to Eilhart von Oberg’s Tristant (ca. 1190), the earliest surviving version of the “complete” story from Tristan’s birth to his death.5 Gottfried, whose text is arguably the most complete and poetically developed rendering of the legend available to us today, seems to have taken considerable interest in the story of Tristan’s origins, developing it much more extensively than did Eilhart (and thus, conceivably, Béroul or Thomas). As we saw clearly in the character of Alexis, a protagonist’s origins and childhood provide him with (or deprive him of) a place in the world. Gottfried seems to have understood well the importance of childhood and adeptly uses Tristan’s “prehistory” to reveal much about the hero’s nature. More than the other Tristan poets, previously published as Molly C. Robinson, “Tristan: A Story of Precarious Belonging,” Tristania 18 (1998), 1–15. Gottfried’s narrator refers to Thomas in his prologue, evoking the many poets who have not told the tale right: “Sine sprâchen in der rihte niht, / als Thômas von Britanje giht.” (“They did not write according to the authentic version as told by Thomas of Britain” [vv. 148–50, p. 43]). Having done his own research, he can assure the reader that Thomas’s version tells the true and authentic story, which he is now offering to “allen edelen herzen” (“all noble hearts” [v. 170, p. 43]). We can reasonably posit that G and T agree on the basic elements of the story that are important to this study (for example, geographical structure, central narrative events, Tristan’s behavior). For my purposes, G is essential not only because it recounts Tristan’s origins but because it develops to a greater extent the interpretative potential of space and place that remains more latent in other versions. All original quotations are from Karl Marold’s edition: Gottfried von Straßburg, Tristan, ed. Karl Marold (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2004); English translations are from Gottfried von Straßburg, Tristan, ed. A. T. Hatto (London: Penguin Books, 1967). For each citation, verse numbers will be provided first, then page numbers for the translation. 5. Gertrude Schoepperle (in Tristan and Isolt. A Study of the Sources of the Romance, 2 vols. [New York: B. Franklin, 1963]) advances the theory that a first narrative version of the legend—referred to by scholars as l’Estoire—was written in Old French, under the patronage of Eleanor of Aquitaine, toward the middle of the twelfth century. According to this hypothesis, Béroul, Eilhart, and Thomas each based their poetic adaptations of the story on the lost Estoire. Others, such as Alberto Vàrvaro (in “La Teoria dell’archetipo tristaniano,” Romania 88 [1967]: 13–58), suggest that the first written versions of the legend derive from a malleable but relatively stable set of canonical episodes and names first developed in oral tradition. For an additional study of Tristan’s sources, see Sigmund Eisner, The Tristan Legend: A Study in Sources (Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 1969).

186  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion Gottfried is intent on revealing who Tristan is by telling us where he comes from; in other words, by describing his place. Such an extensive development by Gottfried indicates the crucial significance of this “prehistory,” largely bypassed by scholars, for our understanding of place’s functioning in the entire romance. In summary then, of the four earliest versions of the Tristan legend surviving today, only the Middle High German poems of Eilhart and Gottfried contain the account of Tristan’s parents and childhood. Traditionally, Eilhart’s poem is thought to resemble closely the Old French poem of Béroul (the two ostensibly derive from the same source and represent what Frappier calls the “common” version of the story);6 Gottfried explicitly declares that his tale is a “translation” of Thomas’s Old French poem. (T and G represent the “courtly” version of the story, according to Frappier’s formula.)7 We cannot know for certain whether Thomas developed the story of Tristan’s origins as thoroughly as did Gottfried, although Joan Tasker Grimbert asserts that Thomas “was doubtless responsible for embellishing and lengthening the legend considerably by the addition of the account of Rivalin and Blancheflor’s tragic love.”8 Although it is likely that Thomas introduced the idea of developing Tristan’s origins, the original length of T has been estimated at 13,000 lines,9 while the unfinished G contains 19,548. One can therefore plausibly guess that Gottfried may have added significantly to his source in “translating” this part of the story.10 6. Jean Frappier, “Structure et sens du Tristan: version commune, version courtoise,” Cahiers de Civilisation Médiévale 6 (1963): 255–80, 441–54. 7. The “common” and “courtly” distinction has been much contested by scholars such as Jonin (Les Personnages féminins) and Tony Hunt (“The Significance of Thomas’s Tristan,” Reading Medieval Studies 7 [1981]: 41–61). 8. Joan Tasker Grimbert, “Love, Honor, and Alienation in Thomas’s Roman de Tristan,” in The Arthurian Yearbook 2 (New York: Garland, 1992), 77–98, quotation on 89–90. 9. See Felix Lécoy, “Sur l’Etendue probable du Tristan de Thomas,” Romania 109 (1988): 378–79. 10. Critics have justifiably credited Thomas with having given to the legend the rhetorical and poetic depth that so inspired poets in the centuries to follow. As C. MarchelloNizia notes in her introduction to the Pléiade edition, Thomas “seems to have assimilat-

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  187 Eilhart’s telling of the prehistory is succinct, taking approximately three hundred lines. After E’s prologue (vv. 1–46b),11 the narrator tells of King Mark’s war against the king of Scotland and Ireland, who has invaded Cornwall (vv. 47–70). Mark’s request for aid from his vassals reaches the ears of King Rivalin of Lohnois, who comes with his army to Cornwall’s defense even though he is not Mark’s vassal. Rivalin does so because he would like to take Mark’s sister, Blanchefleur, as his wife (vv. 71–85). Blanchefleur becomes so enamored of Rivalin that she flees with him once the war is over. Pregnant, she dies in childbirth during the sea voyage. Her child is delivered by cesarean, and his father names him Tristrant and brings him home (vv. 86–102). After mourning Blanchefleur, Rivalin entrusts Tristrant to a nurse, who raises him until he is old enough to ride a horse (vv. 103–25). He then receives a courtly education from Kurneval (vv. 126–84). This education is described in some detail. When he is old enough, upon Kurneval’s advice, Tristrant asks his father for permission to visit foreign lands. Rivalin agrees and gives Tristrant men, a ship, and abundant goods for his journey (vv. 185– 246). They arrive in Cornwall, where no one knows them; Tristrant instructs all his men to keep their provenance secret. He presents himself to King Mark, who welcomes him. Tristrant earns a reputation for valor and honor at Mark’s court (vv. 251–350b). Gottfried’s tale differs significantly from that of Eilhart. His prologue (vv. 1–242) is nearly as long as E’s entire prehistory. G begins by describing Tristan’s father, Rivalin of Parmenie (vv. 243–332). Rivalin is king of Parmenie and also holds another land from Mored this art of language and of rhetorical invention into his very principle of composition” (“semble avoir en quelque sort assimilé à son principe même de composition cet art du langage et de l’invention rhétorique” [Marchello-Nizia, Tristan et Yseut, xlii]). One could argue that it is in large part through T, and subsequently through Gottfried’s “translation,” that Tristan and Iseut became the Western world’s unparalleled archetype of fatalistic passion and love. 11. All references to Eilhart are from Eilhart von Oberg, Tristant, ed. and modern French trans. Danielle Buschinger (Göppingen, Germany: Verlag Alfred Kümmerle, 1976). English translations of Eilhart are mine.

188  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion gan, a Breton. Feeling himself wronged by Morgan (Gottfried expresses some doubt regarding the righteousness of Rivalin’s claim), Rivalin goes to war against his legitimate lord, invading and ravaging his country. Rivalin wins the war and a one-year truce is called (vv. 333–406). Very soon afterward, he decides to go to the court of King Mark of Cornwall and England in order to perfect his knightly virtues. He entrusts his land to Rual li Foitenant, and he and his men are welcomed by Mark (vv. 407–506). Mark’s sister Blanchefleur first sees and falls in love with Rivalin at a spring jousting festival. G describes at length how the two become aware of their love (vv 408–1116). At this time, Mark receives news that an enemy king has invaded his country. Rivalin is gravely wounded in battle defending Mark (vv. 1117–96). Blanchefleur, fearing the worst, manages to visit Rivalin in his chamber with the help of her nursemaid. She revives him with her kisses and becomes pregnant with the child who will bring her death. But in the midst of their happiness, Rivalin hears that Morgan has attacked his lands. Blanchefleur, fearing Mark’s wrath, begs Rivalin to bring her along as he returns to war. Rivalin agrees, and the two return to Parmenie and are married (vv. 1237–1653). Very soon, however, Rivalin is killed in battle. Blanchefleur, overcome with grief, gives birth to Tristan and dies (vv. 1654–1788). Rual li Foitenant, Rivalin’s marshal, fearing Morgan’s revenge, tells everyone that Blanchefleur’s child died and adopts Tristan as his own son. Until the age of seven, Tristan stays with Floraete, Rual’s wife. Then he is entrusted to Kurneval, who ensures his education. When Tristan is fourteen, Rual has him travel throughout his native country in order to learn its customs (vv. 1789–2146). One day, a ship of Norwegian merchants arrives at Rual’s castle. Tristan, enticed by a game of chess, is kidnapped by the merchants, who release him shortly thereafter. They happen to release him in Cornwall, where he shrewdly makes his way to Tintagel and ingratiates himself at King Mark’s court. There he remains for over three years,

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  189 much loved by Mark (vv. 2147–3754). After years of searching, Rual at last finds Tristan and reveals to all his true identity as son of Rivalin and Blanchefleur and nephew of Mark. Mark pledges to make Tristan his sole heir. Tristan returns briefly to Parmenie, where he goes to war against Morgan, killing him to avenge his father’s death. Rescued from certain defeat by Rual, Tristan manages to retake the land that his father once held from Morgan. Instead of remaining in Parmenie, however, he turns his entire inheritance over to Rual and his sons, asking only to remain suzerain of his vassals, servants, and other fiefs during his lifetime. He then returns to Mark’s side (vv. 3755–5870). As this brief summary of E and G shows, the two stories differ greatly both in length and in certain important details. There is, of course, the obvious fact that Gottfried takes almost six thousand lines to narrate events told by Eilhart in roughly three hundred. But there are also significant discrepancies between the two traditions. They indicate that G is not simply an amplification of the tale told in E. Perhaps most significantly, Tristan’s father does not die in E, while G places Rivalin’s death before that of Blanchefleur, making Tristan an orphan. A second difference lies in the transfer of several motifs. For example, in E, it is Tristan who goes to Mark’s court seeking a courtly education, while in G it is Rivalin. Moreover, E begins by evoking the threat to Mark’s lands by an enemy, while G introduces into his story the character of Morgan, who occasions both Rivalin’s and Tristan’s vengeful behavior. G develops more thoroughly the inner lives of Rivalin, Blanchefleur, and the young Tristan than does Eilhart. Finally, in E, Tristan himself holds the key to his identity as Mark’s nephew and willfully withholds it; in G, Tristan does not know the truth until Rual reveals it, but he nevertheless prevaricates about his identity. E and G also use space differently in constructing their respective narratives. The first space to be mentioned in Eilhart’s tale is that of Cornwall. King Mark’s war against the king of Scotland and

190  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion Ireland opens the story, not only foreshadowing in ominously adversarial tones his future marriage with Iseut, daughter of the king, but also indicating Mark’s importance in framing the story. In effect, Eilhart’s poem also ends in Cornwall, with Mark having forgiven the lovers and brought them back to his kingdom to be buried. Thus, in E, Mark represents the starting point and endpoint of the story of Tristan and Iseut. This truth is expressed through spatial means, through Cornwall, a place almost as strongly identified with Mark as Camelot with Arthur. Perhaps the only physical space in Tristan to carry the connotations of place discussed in the first two chapters—social belonging and connection to an order of things that transcends the individual—Cornwall is the spatial center for the tale. For Eilhart, Rivalin’s kingdom of Lohnois seems secondary and inconsequential as a place. Unlike Cornwall, there is never any question of Lohnois being threatened or at stake in any way, either for Rivalin or for Tristan. Spatially, the narrative of Tristan’s origins and childhood progresses in a linear and logical fashion, looping from Cornwall to Lohnois, then back to Cornwall where Tristan settles into his role as Mark’s nephew and defender of his lands. In this prehistory, Eilhart uses space in a manner similar to that employed in Roland and Alexis, with the meaning and structure of one given space—Mark’s Cornwall—undergirding the action and motivations of the story. While the lovers’ illicit passion temporarily overshadows Cornwall’s centrality, Cornwall otherwise unquestionably serves as the anchoring and framing space of the story. Gottfried’s use of space is considerably more complex. Tristan’s tale begins in Parmenie, the space of his father. This beginning uproots the story from Mark’s Cornwall and calls our attention to the fact that Tristan has a place and belonging of his own, separate from his uncle Mark. (The fact that Tristan’s native country varies in different versions underlines the absence of a strong identification between Tristan and a given place. Invariably, Mark hails from Tinta-

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  191 gel, Arthur from Camelot, and Iseut from Ireland; yet the tradition is ambivalent about Tristan’s home.) Through his father and mother, Tristan comes into the world endowed with two possible places of belonging: Parmenie and Cornwall. In fact, far more than with either of these places, Tristan is associated consistently and across textual versions with the sea. Throughout G (and other texts), he regularly undertakes sea voyages. The sea, a place neither here nor there, but always in between, acts as a powerful instrument of fate for Tristan: he is born at sea (in E); he first drifts away from home on the sea; he is released by his abductors because the sea acts up as if in protest; he and Iseut drink the love potion during a sea voyage; on the sea appears the white sail that, rendered black by deceit, brings death. Like Rome for Alexis and France for Roland, the sea informs Tristan’s story and is identified with his character more than any other space, and in this sense it appears to be his truest “home.” The consequences of this identification are astounding, for the sea’s nature as place differs radically from Rome, France, or any other space on land. Indeed, the sea, with its fluid, constantly shifting, and essentially uninhabitable nature, would appear to be just the opposite of place as we have defined it thus far. In many ways, the sea represents not place but placelessness. Throughout this chapter and the next, I will explore many ramifications of Tristan’s identification with the sea. While the sea plays a central role spatially throughout G, Parmenie (the homeland of Tristan’s father) also takes on considerable importance in the poem’s opening section. Twice, Rivalin goes to war against Morgan, a character who does not appear in E, in defense of his lands.12 The spatial framework of the narrative shifts frequently, from Parmenie to Morgan’s country to Cornwall. Within Cornwall, 12. To portray a ruler’s struggle in defending his kingdom against outside threats is to emphasize its worth as place: through G’s description of Rivalin, Rual, and Tristan’s attempts to keep Parmenie from Morgan, Parmenie takes on a value and a weight that Lohnois does not have in E.

192  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion we move from the shore to court, to the prairie festivities, to the internal thoughts of Rivalin and Blanchefleur, to a battlefield, to Rivalin’s room, and finally to his ship. Once back in Parmenie, we move to Kanoel, one of Rivalin’s fortresses, then to another battlefield, then again to Kanoel. With Tristan’s birth, a cycle begins again from Parmenie to Cornwall by way of a sea voyage, then with Rual through different countries, then again to Parmenie and back to Cornwall. These constant spatial shifts, punctuated by sea voyages, seem to prefigure both Tristan’s tendency toward problematic belonging, and his later exiled state, indicating that the roots of this tendency predate his birth. From the beginning, Gottfried avoids anchoring his narrative in a given place. In this way, he uses space as a means to reveal a certain rootlessness in his protagonist. The rootlessness already apparent in the spatial structuring of the prehistory becomes clearer still when we examine the story of Tristan’s parents.

Rivalin and Blan chefleur Thus, after his prologue, Gottfried begins with a detailed account of how Tristan’s father and mother, Rivalin and Blanchefleur, fall in love, conceive a son, and die, leaving this world at almost the exact moment at which Tristan enters it. The poet is clearly concerned with giving the hero a lineage. As with Alexis’s parents, Tristan’s parents and the lineage they represent play an essential role in defining his place. In many ways, Rivalin and Blanchefleur’s story foretells and doubles Tristan’s own.13 Yet this parent-child bond does not offer the stabilizing roots of familial continuity. As we will see, what is most striking in this account is its deliberate uprooting and breaking of bonds. The alienation so present in the legend finds itself echoed in Gottfried’s destabilized spatial framework. With the 13. Gottfried thus seems to follow the pattern of doubling noted in Thomas’s version by Matilda Tomaryn Bruckner, “The Representation of the Lovers’ Death: Thomas’ Tristan as Open Text,” in Tristan and Isolde: A Casebook, ed. Joan Tasker Grimbert (New York: Garland, 1995), 95–109.

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  193 account’s unsettling emphasis on sorrow, falsehood, and estrangement, the only place it offers Tristan is one of discontinuity and conflicted belonging.14 As I have mentioned, one of the most significant differences separating the accounts of Eilhart and Gottfried lies in their treatment of Rivalin, Tristan’s father. Eilhart (and presumably Béroul) portray Rivalin as surviving Blanchefleur’s death and assuring Tristan’s upbringing and education. In Gottfried (and presumably Thomas), Rivalin dies before Tristan’s birth, precipitating Blanchefleur’s death from grief. The consequences of this difference are weighty. Rivalin’s death in G places the infant Tristan in grave danger of Morgan’s revenge and results in Rual’s subterfuge to conceal Tristan’s identity. Therefore, besides making Mark his only living blood relative, it necessitates Tristan’s ignorance of his true identity, depriving him of a genuine sense of belonging. In this way, Rivalin’s death informs Tristan’s destiny of placelessness as it plays out throughout the entire poem. With his father alive and familial identity intact (as in E), Tristan’s exiled existence in the latter part of the poem finds its origins in the drinking of the love potion and subsequent doomed passion for Iseut. With his father dead and his origins concealed (as 14. The story of Rivalin and Blanchefleur has been analyzed by several scholars, notably Johan Nowe, “Riwalin und Blanscheflur: Analyse und Interpretation der Vorgeschicte von Gottfrieds Tristan als formaler und thematischer Vorwegnahme der Gesamtdichtung,” Leuvense Bijdragen 71 (1982): 265–330; Kommentarband zu Tristan, ed. Rüdiger Krohn, 3rd ed. (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1984); Lambertus Okken, “Kommentar zum TristanRoman Gottfrieds von Straßburg,” Amsterdamer Publikationene zur Sprache und Literatur 57 (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1984); Blakeslee, Love’s Masks; Tasker Grimbert, “Love, Honor, and Alienation,” and Danielle Buschinger, “Gottfried’s Adaptation of the Story of Riwalin and Blanscheflur,” in A Companion to Gottfried von Strassburg’s Tristan (Rochester, N.Y.: Camden House, 2003), 73–86. Blakeslee, Krohn, Nowe, and Buschinger underline the many similarities between Rivalin and Blanchefleur’s love story and that of Tristan and Iseut, while Okken analyzes Gottfried’s use of antique, biblical, and medieval motifs in the story of Tristan’s parents. While these excellent studies are centered upon thematic and formal issues, both intra- and intertextual, my purpose here is to question the repercussions of these issues on Tristan himself and on his place. Tasker Grimbert, who argues for the importance of “[giving] this first half of the romance its due” (“Love, Honor, and Alienation,” 89), and relates Tristan’s subsequent feelings of alienation to his irregular origins, comes closest to my own perspective.

194  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion in G), the beginnings of Tristan’s exile are established well before the love potion, indeed, before his birth.15 In many ways, Rivalin acts as a negative foil for his son in Gottfried’s poem. Rivalin is described as “selten vorbesihtic” (“never prudent” [v. 300]), in deliberate contrast with Tristan, who is qualified as “vorbedaehtic” and “vorbesihtic” (“foresighted” [v. 7908] and “prudent” [v. 7914]).16 Generally speaking, Tristan’s calculating and disciplined approach distinguishes him from the impulsiveness and self-indulgence present in his father’s character. Yet, Gottfried also establishes a certain continuity between father and son. For example, Gottfried develops considerably the character of Morgan, Rivalin’s legitimate feudal lord (“solte dem sîn untertân” [v. 331]), whose country Rivalin imprudently invades early in the tale. After many losses and hardships suffered on both sides, Morgan negotiates a one-year truce with Rivalin, who then travels to Cornwall and falls in love with Blanchefleur. When Morgan reattacks, both Rivalin and Blanchefleur return to Parmenie, Rivalin is killed in battle, and his fief remains in Morgan’s hands. Later, when Tristan learns his true identity as Rivalin’s son, he returns to Parmenie. In a remarkable lack of courtliness, Tristan orders his men to dissimulate their arms under their tunics and approaches Morgan while the latter is out hunting (vv. 5318–23). Morgan welcomes him warmly and expresses his desire to act righteously, but Tristan kills him without hesitation (vv. 5376–5462). Thus, Gottfried binds Morgan to both Rivalin and Tristan. By highlighting their common enemy and shared trait of immoderate desire for revenge, he shows us that Tristan inherits more than just lands from his father. 15. Merritt Blakeslee sees Tristan’s orphanhood as a “trick” that gives the hero “a freedom of action similar to that of the hero of a picaresque novel, a freedom denied to the conventional aristocratic hero of medieval romance whose origins inalterably determine his identity and destiny” (“Tristan the Trickster in the Old French Tristan Poems,” Cultura Neolatina 45 [1984]: 167–90, quotation on 176). While Tristan’s “freedom” from his origins does set him apart from other romance heroes, it determines his identity and destiny nonetheless, precisely by depriving him of a stabilizing place. As the tragic nature of the legend shows, such deprivation can bring dangerous isolation, even alienation. 16. I am grateful to Professor Michael Curschmann for this insight.

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  195 In another instance, Rivalin decides to improve his courtly manners by traveling to King Mark of Cornwall’s court. Thus, Gottfried’s text brings off an interesting transfer of the courtly education motif in relation to Eilhart. In E, it is Tristan himself who seeks to finish his education at Mark’s court and who must ask permission from his father in order to do so. G’s transfer of the courtly education motif onto Rivalin, like his setting of the latter’s death before Tristan’s birth and his portrayal of the struggle against Morgan, has several repercussions. First, by transferring textual motifs between characters in this manner, he seems to indicate that Rivalin and Tristan are, on some level, two stages of the same whole, one continuing, albeit subconsciously, the motivations and desires of the other.17 The courtly education actively sought out by Rivalin will also be accomplished by his son; however, the latter finds Mark’s court by pure chance. (This is but one factor among many that emphasize the role of the unconscious and the unwilled in Tristan’s story.) In addition to bringing out the powerful element of chance in Tristan’s happening upon Mark’s court by contrasting it with his father’s willful project, Gottfried places both father and son in a relationship of betrayed loyalty toward King Mark. Both are welcomed as strangers in Cornwall and are treated generously by the king: Rivalin because of his standing and Tristan through his virtuosity. Both fall in love in a foreign land and secretly steal away a woman much loved by the king. As previously noted, by placing Tristan’s father in a situation similar to his son’s and by developing the father’s story, Gottfried embeds the hero within a paternal precedent; yet, by making this father die before his son’s birth, the poet disconnects Tristan from this precedent, emphasizing his inability to profit from either his father’s experience or his name. In juxtaposition with their betrayed loyalty toward Mark, Ri17. For a discussion of the father-son relationship in feudal society as it relates to Gottfried’s Tristan, see Horst Wenzel, “Negation und Doppelung: Poetische Experimentalformen von Individualgeschichte im Tristan Gottfrieds von Straßburg,” in Wege in die Neuzeit, ed. Thomas Cramer (Munich: Wilhelm Fink, 1988), 229–47.

196  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion valin and Tristan also share the more valiant deed of defending Mark’s lands and being wounded in the process. The theme of going to war in conquest or defense of a place is prominent in Rivalin’s story: he first seeks to redress a wrong done to him by invading Morgan’s country, then receives a near-fatal wound in defending Mark against his enemies, and finally is killed while defending himself against Morgan. Likewise, Tristan reconquers his father’s fief, receives a poisoned wound in defending Cornwall against Morholt, and is finally mortally wounded while helping a devoted lover to be reunited with the married woman he loves (Tristan the Dwarf in T, Kaherdin in E). In both cases, Rivalin and Tristan safely fight a first battle, and then receive, while defending Mark, a mortal wound that is miraculously cured by their beloved. Finally, each is felled by a final wound that reflects in some way his gravest weakness (Rivalin’s immoderate vengeance-wish, Tristan’s love for a married woman). Father and son both betray a man for whom they willingly risk their lives; both suffer recurrent wounds. Poetically speaking, the character of Rivalin is of course generated by Tristan, because the latter is the legend’s central figure. In terms of the story’s chronology, however, the father creates a place for his son. As Eufemian’s relationship to Rome informed how Alexis understood and related to that place, Rivalin also seems to play an important role—albeit an unconscious one as far as Tristan is concerned—in setting up the woundedness and betrayed loyalties that will subsequently characterize his son’s relationship to place. Just as Rivalin shapes the nature of Tristan’s place without the latter ever being aware of his father’s influence, the loves of Rivalin and Blanchefleur also appear to set the groundwork for Tristan and Iseut’s love relationship. The two couples’ loves share several particularities.18 Love is born for the former couple through a curious 18. For a summary of these elements, see D. Buschinger and W. Spiewok’s notes to their Pléiade edition of Gottfried in Tristan et Yseut: Les premières Versions européennes, 1421–22; and J. F. Poag, “The Onset of Love: The Problem of the Religious Dimension in Gottfried von Strassburg’s Tristan,” in Semper idem et novus: Festschrift for Frank Banta, ed.

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  197 echo effect. Blanchefleur claims she fell in love after hearing other ladies praise Rivalin (vv. 1025–36). Likewise, Rivalin falls in love because he believes Blanchefleur loves him (vv. 795–808). For both couples, love occurs indirectly, whether through the intervention of another person’s words (as for Rivalin and Blanchefleur), through a potion (for Tristan and Iseut), or through the associations attached to a name (for Tristan and Iseut of the White Hands).19 At a fundamental level, both Rivalin and Blanchefleur feel that they have been trapped (“verwurren” [v. 871]) by love. Blanchefleur repeatedly blames her feelings on witchcraft (“zouberlist,” “zouber” [vv. 1001, 1038]), and Rivalin is compared to a bird ensnared. This identification of love with trickery will be considerably strengthened in the love potion which unites Tristan and Iseut, but even more remarkable is love’s total lack of positive connotations for Rivalin and Blanchefleur. From the beginning, Blanchefleur proclaims in vehement direct discourse or internal monologues that her love for Rivalin is “wie ir mir ze buoze ..... habet getân” (“the wrong that you have done me” [vv. 781–82, p. 51]); “gêndiu leit” (“the keenest sorrow” [v. 989, p. 54]); “sô leide und alsô swâre” (“unhappiness and sorrow” [v. 1007, p. 54]). Rivalin’s feelings seem less malevolent and require the narrator’s interpretation to be expressed but are nonetheless joyless: wan allez daz, des er began, daz was mit wunderlîchen siten und mit blintheit undersniten ..... sîn leben begunde swachen (G, vv. 940–42, 947)

All that he did was chequered with strangeness and blindness ..... his life took a turn for the worse. (p. 53) Francis G. Gentry (Göppingen: Kümmerle Verlag, 1988), 285–305, who sees the story of Rivalin and Blanchefleur as a prefiguration of the Minnegrotte episode. 19. Only secondary characters such as Mark or Iseut of the White Hands—figures of the deceived spouse—seem to be able to love the other directly, for their loveable qualities.

198  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion As with Tristan and Iseut, their love’s discovery coincides temporally with a life-threatening wound: Blanchefleur and Rivalin consummate their love as he lies near death from a battle wound, while Tristan and Iseut are brought together by the wound caused by Morholt. As I have pointed out, both Rivalin and Tristan receive their wounds while defending Mark’s kingdom. Furthermore, while bringing Rivalin back to life, Blanchefleur receives a sort of delayed fatal wound—the child Tristan (“die nôt si mit der minne lie, / den tôt si mit dem kinde enphie” [“She left her anguish when love came, death she received with the child” (v. 1337–38, p. 58)]). This insistence on the painful and tragic quality of love will develop into the highly self-conscious love/death connection for Tristan and Iseut. In addition, the relationships of both couples are forbidden, and therefore secret and socially unintegrated. Perhaps even more than his father, Tristan’s mother, Blanchefleur, participates in defining what will become her son’s place. While parallels between Tristan and his father can be found in the similarity of certain events in their lives and even in character traits, a deeper common nature seems to join the protagonist and his mother. Tristan and Blanchefleur share, especially when in love, a propensity for suffering and sorrowful thought that focuses primarily on their own misery. Even more significant, however, is their duplicity and lack of connection to their homeland. On the night Tristan is conceived, Blanchefleur sneaks into Rivalin’s bed disguised as a beggar-woman. Conceived under the sign of simulation, Tristan himself becomes a master of disguise, often dressing as a beggar as did his mother. Later, when Rivalin gives Blanchefleur the choice of coming home with him or asking him to stay with her, she chooses to go with him and to do so secretly, without taking leave of her brother, Mark. In this she stands in contrast with Iseut, who is furious with Tristan for taking her away from home (vv. 11552–57). Blanchefleur seems unaffected by this departure. Likewise, when Tristan is kidnapped and finds his way to Tintagel, he remains there

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  199 until Rual finds him, never attempting to find his way back. These shared traits of duplicity and detachment from home indicate that Tristan’s uprootedness is not solely the result of the circumstances surrounding his birth and childhood but rather stems from an inherent, almost genetic aspect of his identity. Thus, as we have seen, the story of Rivalin and Blanchefleur as told by Gottfried contributes significantly to the tale of Tristan and Iseut, an importance that is marked by its opening position in the poem. In fact, their story founds and defines the place that will be their son’s. (In the same way, the story of Alexis’s parents circumscribes his place, as does the reminder of Charlemagne’s seven-year Spanish war for Roland.) What kind of a place does this tale establish? Blanchefleur and Rivalin’s story speaks of untempered and imprudent impulses, painful and secret love, woundedness, and duplicity. The heart of the “place” offered to Tristan by his parents is contained in his name, based on the word triste (“sad, sorrowful”). His name and identity are a sorrowful feeling. Through this notion of a place that lies in feeling, we can perhaps better understand the fluidity of Tristan’s identity. As Gottfried notes, “Der name / dem lebene was gehellesame” (“The name accorded with the life” [vv. 2017–18, p. 68]).

Tristan ’s Childho od Tristan cannot profit, as can the reader, from the enlightenment offered by his parents’ story; he has no awareness of the place created for him. This is perhaps the most crucial aspect of the story of Tristan’s childhood: his true identity as son of Rivalin and Blanchefleur and lord of Parmenie is hidden from all, including himself.20 The initiator of this subterfuge, Rual li Foitenant, Riva20. Few scholars have written on the subject of Tristan’s childhood. The most thorough study I have read to date is Danielle Buschinger, “L’Enfant dans les romans de Tristan en France et en Allemagne,” L’Enfant an Moyen-Âge, Senefiance 9 (1980): 253–

200  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion lin’s marshal and Tristan’s foster father, becomes the only character who can reveal the truth of the hero’s belonging. (In E, as I have noted, Tristan knows his identity from the beginning.) Shortly after Tristan’s birth and Blanchefleur’s death, Rual tells everyone that the baby died along with his mother and secretly takes Tristan to his wife, Floraete. The latter then convincingly simulates childbirth: si stalte ir muot und al ir lîp ze klage und rehte alse ein wîp, diu eines kindes sol genesen ..... und wandes ouch erkande wol, wie man hie zuo gebâren sol, dô nam si ir willeklage hier abe: si gelîhsente grôz ungehabe an muote unde an lîbe, gelîch einem wîbe, diu ze solhen nœten gât ..... sus wart daz kint zuo ir geleit (vv. 1909–11, 1915–21, 1924)

She assumed the pose of one in pain, like a woman about to give birth ..... since she had full knowledge of how to act the part she drew on it for her simulated labour. She feigned great distraction of body and mind, like a woman about to enter her pangs ..... And so in the greatest secrecy the babe was laid beside her. (p. 66)

Thus, Tristan is conceived by a woman disguised as a beggar, born into grief, and reborn into false identity through the simulation and deceit of Floraete. Sorrow, disguise, deception: these ways of coming into the world will permeate Tristan’s entire life. Rual and Floraete are the most devoted and loving of parents, 67. See also Okken, “Kommentar”; Helaine Newstead, “The Enfances of Tristan and English Tradition,” in Studies in Medieval Literature in Honor of Professor Albert Croll Baugh (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1961), 169–85, who traces the story’s resemblances to English tradition; and Alan Fedrick, “The Account of Tristan’s Birth and Childhood in the French Prose Tristan,” Romania 89 (1968): 340–54, which deals with the Prose Tristan.

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  201 even favoring Tristan over their own sons: “Sîner eigenen kinde / was er sô flîzec niht sô sîn” (“[Rual] was not so devoted to his own sons as he was to Tristan” [vv. 2184–85, p. 70]). Floraete is a true mother to the boy; the narrator refers to her as “sîn süeziu muoter” (“his dear mother” [v. 2049, p. 68]), and to him as “ir liebez kindelîn” (“her darling child” [v. 2044, p. 68]). Rual and Floraete seem to represent an ideal union, for they are certainly the happiest couple of the poem. However close the bonds between Tristan and his foster parents may be, they do not translate into a compelling attachment for the protagonist. In contrast to Rual, who roams throughout Europe for three years searching for his lost foster son, Tristan appears to forget his parents upon arriving in Tintagel.21 After an initial moment of sadness, in which “his heart took him back to his dear ones and to the land where the people were known to him” (“Nu truog in ie sîn herze wider / ze den friunden und zem lande, / dâ er die liute erkande” [vv. 2580–82, p. 75]), he makes his way to Mark’s court and, as far as we know, never gives his parents another thought. Thus, at a very early age, Tristan demonstrates a conspicuous lack of attachment to place. Rual’s deliberate concealment of Tristan’s true identity and Tristan’s resulting ignorance also serve to underline the role of the unconscious, or perhaps of fate, in Tristan’s accidental and haphazard journey to Mark’s court at Tintagel. Tristan will improve his courtly education there, as did his father, without having willfully sought to do so (although, in the story he invents for Mark’s hunters, he declares himself motivated by self-improvement [G vv. 3094– 3121]). This is typical of most of the hero’s subsequent actions—he seemingly does not strive to be courtly or heroic, or for that matter 21. The remarkable ease with which Tristan accepts his arrival in Cornwall, even appearing to welcome it (after all, he lies in order to ensure that he will be allowed to stay), has been largely overlooked. Tasker Grimbert sees in this accidental departure from home yet another of the sorrowful impositions of fate that cause Tristan’s sense of alienation (“Love, Honor, and Alienation,” 91). Tristan’s willingness to embrace his departure points perhaps less to fateful circumstances than to an internal, perhaps even innate, lack of connectedness. His failure to attempt to find his way home upon arriving in Cornwall is an early sign of this lack and consequent alienation.

202  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion shrewd or deceptive—he simply goes where chance brings him.22 The numerous drifting and rudderless sea voyages that characterize Tristan’s story emblematize this tendency. In G, Tristan concocts the story of his origins that establishes his identity at Mark’s court. Tristan informs the first people he meets, pilgrims (whose purposeful journey contrasts with his own), that he got lost in the forest while hunting; then he tells Mark’s huntsmen that he is the son of a merchant. In this second story, which will determine how he is received at court, he effectively lowers his social status beneath both his true identity, as son of a king, and even his assumed identity, as son of a king’s marshal. This untruth has what we suppose was the intended effect: Tristan’s merits appear even more praiseworthy in light of his origins.23 One can’t help but wonder whether, had Tristan told the truth about what had happened to him, his identity as Mark’s nephew would have been discovered earlier. At any rate, Tristan’s behavior upon arriving at Cornwall reveals a child quite adept at concealing the truth and, moreover, inclined to minimize the importance of birth and origins and emphasize individual achievement. This trait, particularly useful to one deprived of the connections so often associated with place, makes Tristan a sort of arriviste avant la lettre.24 When Tristan sees Mark, he is drawn by instinct toward him, 22. This reminds us of how Rivalin, instead of seeking out Blanchefleur, the most beautiful lady of the land, happens upon her “von âventiure” (v. 735). In the same way, Tristan happens to float to Iseut’s Ireland, and the maids happen to serve Tristan and Iseut the love potion instead of wine. Chance, or fate, rather than human will, seem a determining factor in much of the legend’s action, and in particular in Gottfried’s narrative. 23. When Rual appears in Tintagel, the court reflects, “Wie kunde ein werbender man / sîn kint sô schône erzogen hân ..... ?” (“How could a man of trade have reared his child so beautifully ..... ?” [vv. 4090–91, p. 97]). 24. Tristan’s propensity for invented identities, as well as his emphasis on low birth and individual accomplishment, also recall the troubadour persona; as Pierre Bec noted, “Il semble bien ..... que la plupart des troubadours aient appartenu à la basse noblesse et aux couches marginales . . . ces couches se définissant d’abord par profession.” (“It seems . . . that most troubadours belonged to the small nobility and marginal classes . . . these classes being defined first by profession” [Nouvelle Anthologie de la lyrique occitane du moyen âge ([Avignon: Aubanel, 1970], 15). The troubadour aspect of his character will be developed particularly in the Tantris episode.

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  203 because he is of his own blood. Mark, too, is especially fond of the young stranger and makes him a courtier. For the first (and nearly last) time, the narrator presents a mirthful Tristan: lachen, tanzen, singen, rîten, loufen, springen, zuhten unde schallen, daz kunde er mit in allen. er lebete, swie man wolde und als diu jugent solde (vv. 3495–500)25

Laughing, dancing, singing, riding, running, leaping, being on his best behaviour and letting himself go, this he could do with everyone. He lived as people wished him to live, and as young people should. (p. 88, emphasis added)

Most remarkable in this portrait of Tristan at Mark’s court before Rual’s arrival is the seemingly endless list of extraordinary talents displayed by the young man. He can excoriate a hart; give gracefully to the poor; harp; sing; play the fiddle, organistrum, rote, lyre, and sambuca; and speak all languages. All this he does better than anyone can imagine. The reaction of the court is initially one of amazement, and Tristan seems to enjoy the attention. The only time another person’s talents are on display—a Welsh harpist who plays for Mark, said to be the best the court knows—Tristan interrupts the man’s song to commend him and mention the name of the lay (G, vv. 3503–37). The harpist continues to the end of his song, then asks Tristan to play. In this brief episode, Gottfried subtly indicates Tristan’s desire to be the focus of attention and admiration. His displays of prodigiousness have an annoying quality, and perhaps not only for modern sensibilities. It is as if, being without place, Tristan must strive to earn one on 25. It is interesting to note that even within this portrait of merriness, Gottfried inserts a kernel of ambiguity regarding the authenticity of Tristan’s happy behavior: the “swie man wolde.” Tristan shows, even while playing, an extraordinary talent for knowing, and being, what people want him to be.

204  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion his merits, but in doing so he runs the risk of being seen as an interloper. Almost inevitably, envy begins to appear: da begunde sich manc herze senen nâch Tristandes fuoge. dâ wolten genuoge vil gerne sîn gewesen als er (vv. 3702–5)

Then many a heart began to yearn for Tristan’s talents. Many would have loved to be like him. (p. 91)

Such envy will eventually bloom into the full-fledged malevolence directed against Tristan by Mark’s barons later in the poem. At this early stage, however, he is still a child, and less threatening to established power structures than he will be as an adult. From the age of fourteen to seventeen, Tristan is pleased to remain at Tintagel with Mark, seemingly sensing his familial belonging there. He makes it his place, not by purposefully deciding to stay but by passively neglecting to return to Parmenie. Tristan’s ties to home are not strong enough either to pull him back or to drive him away. In his passive adoption of a new belonging in Cornwall, we perceive once again the role of the unconscious in Tristan’s story: even as an adolescent, he knows that Mark represents the truest place he has left. Alongside this emphasis on unconsciousness, the story of Tristan’s origins reveals two fundamental truths about the protagonist. First, it tells us that he is doubly distanced from the place provided by his origins: by the simple fact of his parents’ death and then by the concealment of his identity as their son, which prevented him from forming even ties of memory to them. Later, when at the age of seventeen, Rual informs Tristan of the truth, the hero experiences a double loss: he must belatedly mourn the death of his real father, of whose existence he was ignorant, and relinquish his belief that Rual is his father. ich hœre mînen vater sagen, mîn vater der sî lange erslagen.

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  205 hie mite verzîhet er sich mîn, sus muoz ich âne vater sîn, zweier veter, die ich gewunnen hân. â, vater unde vaterwân, wie sît ir mir alsus benomen! ..... da verliuse ich zwêne vetere an, in unde den ich nie gesach (vv. 4365–71, 4374–75)

I hear my father say that my father was killed long ago. With this he renounces me, and I must go minus a father—I who had come to have two! O father, and belief that I had a father, how you have both been taken from me! ..... I lose two fathers—himself and the one I never saw! (p. 101)

Rual’s subterfuge leaves Tristan without any real belonging. The ties of belonging he grew up with turn out to be feigned and, at seventeen years of age, it is late to begin developing an authentic belonging to place through his parental heritage.26 Quite soon after learning his identity, he seeks to affirm this heritage by returning to Parmenie to avenge his father’s murder. To assume his rightful position as lord of Parmenie would be the logical consequence of his unequivocal success: er hete dô ze sîner hant sînes vater erbe und al sîn lant unversprochenlîche unde alsô, daz nieman in den zîten dô ansprâche hæte an kein sîn guot. (vv. 5633–37)

He was now in uncontested possession of his father’s entire legacy so that no one at that time laid claim of his property. (p. 118)

26. For a discussion of the bifurcation of identity caused by Tristan’s late discovery of his origins, see Carola Gottzmann, “Identitätsproblematik in Gottfrieds Tristan,” Germanische-Romanische Monatsschrift 39, no. 2 (1989): 129–46.

206  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion Moreover, his people are overjoyed at the news that he is alive, and they desperately want him to remain as their leader. These reasons notwithstanding, he decides to leave his homeland in order to become Mark’s successor, bequeathing his paternal inheritance to Rual (“Daz ez sîn erbelêhen sî” [“This shall be his hereditary fief ” (v. 5807, p. 120)]). In doing so, Tristan renounces the only place that could, dependably and without reliance on others, be his own. A second essential element of the tale of Tristan’s origins is the manner in which each event positions the protagonist between conflicting belongings. Initially, it is Blanchefleur who must choose between Parmenie and Cornwall, and eighteen years later, Tristan is confronted with the same choice of belonging. As Wenzel notes, he is also torn between two, or even three, fathers: first between Rivalin and Rual and then between Rual and Mark.27 (Gottfried strongly underlines the difficulty caused by these conflicts of paternal identity for Tristan in verses 5638–5716.) He is both conceived and born on the cusp of life and death—an in-between position that seems to inform his entire story. And through Rual’s concealment of his identity as lord and inheritor of Parmenie, his ties to homeland are considerably weakened. A powerful symbol of Tristan’s interstitial position is the sea. Tristan’s constant returns to the sea underscore the unstable fluidity of his belonging, both to people and to place. The precarious belonging so well expressed in Tristan’s special relationship with the sea does not end with Tristan’s childhood but rather permeates all aspects of his story. Confronted with the choice of becoming ruler over his father’s lands or his uncle’s vassal, Tristan opts for the latter. In many ways, this decision would not be unexpected. The medieval tradition of a young man completing his education with his maternal uncle has been well documented (Roland and Charlemagne, Gawain and Arthur are some examples).28 In ad27. Wenzel, “Negation und Doppelung,” 238. 28. On this tradition, see William O. Farnsworth, Uncle and Nephew in the Old French Chansons de Geste: A Study in the Survival of Matriarchy (New York: Columbia University Press, 1913).

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  207 dition, knightly allegiance offered to many young men the means of constructing a social identity. However, Tristan’s complete and virtually unhesitating renunciation of his paternal place and birthright seems surprising. It marks both his unwillingness to enter into the binding relationship of responsibility between a lord and his people and his attempt to create a new and more satisfactory belonging with the only family he has left: Mark. And yet, Tristan’s new belonging is almost immediately characterized by the frequency of his voyages to and from court.29 Indeed, one could say that Tristan’s anchoring in space is highly elastic: he is constantly displacing himself. One senses, both in the renunciation of his inheritance and in his behavior as Mark’s vassal, that full-fledged belonging, along with its responsibilities and stability, generates a certain amount of unease for Tristan. He chooses to make Mark’s court his sole place of belonging, but his belonging is erratic and his insertion at court distinguished by a certain separateness. This separateness is demonstrated by his numerous departures and returns, his frequent troubles with other barons, and even his heroic deeds (such as the slaying of Morholt), which seem to result not so much from any fierce attachment but rather from detachment from worldly values and even from life in general.30 Tristan’s banishment from his uncle’s lands after the 29. Interestingly, Tristan only begins undertaking frequent voyages from Cornwall after his belated discovery of his true identity. In the three years prior to Rual’s arrival he does not once depart from Mark’s side. From the time that he becomes aware of a true familial belonging with Mark, he spends less time with him. One can speculate that this reflects Tristan’s discomfort with close belonging. 30. Like Roland, Tristan disdains the peers of the realm for clinging so tightly to their own lives that they are willing to give their sons as sacrifice to Morholt, castigating them thus: “Ez ist gâr wider gotes gebote, / der sîner kinde frîheit / der eigenschefte vür leit, / daz er sî ze schalken gebe / und er mit frîheite lebe” (“It is utterly against God’s commandments when a man yields the liberty of his sons up to serfdom, when he hands them over as bondsmen and himself lives on in freedom!” [vv. 6110–14, p. 123]). In this way, Tristan’s character portrays a blend of heroic and saintly qualities. Gottfried’s portrayal of Tristan and Iseut as secular saints has been noted by many scholars, most often in regard to the Morois forest or lover’s cave episode (see, for example, Ülle Erika Lewes, The Life in the Forest: The Influence of the Saint Giles Legend on the Courtly Tristan Story, Tristania Monograph Series [Chattanooga, Tenn.: Tristania Monographs, 1979]; Bodo Mergell, Tristan und Isolde: Ursprung und Entwicklung der Tristansage des Mittelalters [Mainz: Kirchheim,

208  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion discovery of his and Iseut’s illicit love, following upon the renunciation of his own lands, not only eliminates Tristan’s last ties to a given space but endangers the other forms of belonging that defined his new identity: knighthood, courtliness, family, and love. Indeed, the circumstances of Tristan’s birth and childhood, adoption by King Mark, love for Iseut, and marriage all result in severed ties and failed belonging. Certain aspects of the story would indicate that Tristan’s exile stems from his own inner nature—from an inherent instability of the self.31 We have seen how Tristan shares an apparent detachment from homeland with his mother. Furthermore, among the main characteristics attributed to the child Tristan before his abduction is the fact that he is able, at a very young age, to speak many foreign languages perfectly, a talent that amazes his abductors: si nam des wunder, daz ein kint sô manege sprâche kunde: die fluzzen ime ze munde, daz sîz ê nie vernâmen, an swelhe stat sî kâmen (vv. 2280–84)

They were amazed that a child could speak so many languages, which flowed to his lips in a way they had never heard in any port they had called at. (p. 71)

1949]; Julius Schwietering, “Der Tristan Gottfrieds von Staßburg und die Berhardische Mystik,” in Mystik und höfische Dichtung im Hochmittelalter [Tübingen: Niemayer, 1960], 1–25), but I would argue that the hagiographical undercurrents of the story (of which Tristan’s problematic belonging is a crucial part) represent an inherent aspect of Tristan’s character, even pre-Iseut. Tristan resembles a saint in his detachment from worldly forms of belonging, but this detachment, unlike that of a saint, is not embedded within a larger picture of attachment and belonging to God. Tristan’s detachment is truly one of placelessness and exile. 31. Peggy Knapp also touches upon the young Tristan’s talent for duplicity, noting his “cleverness and foresight” and “unnecessarily complicated lies” in “The Potion/Poison in Gottfried’s Tristan,” in Assays: Critical Approaches to Medieval and Renaissance Texts (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1985), 41–56, quotation on 42.

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  209 When he comes across two pilgrims after being released by his abductors, he immediately concocts an elaborate and untrue story about his origins, with great ease and seemingly without any reason to lie, and when he meets Mark’s huntsmen just moments later he invents yet another story.32 In fact, from the time he is taken away from Parmenie, he is constantly making up stories, more out of instinct than necessity. From the beginning, Tristan’s sense of identity is exceedingly malleable. This elasticity is echoed in the weakness of his ties to his place of origins (in the first step of his progressive exile, Tristan is so absorbed in his chess game that he is abducted in a boat without noticing it and, once lost, makes no attempt to find his way home). As he matures, Tristan increasingly proves himself as a multitalented master of dissimulation and disguise. In many respects, this ability reflects his identity as a trouvère, an essential aspect of his character.33 But it also indicates a lack of core identity, a relativity of the self that for Tristan blurs the lines between home and elsewhere, between the self and otherness, between the beloved and her name or her image, between truth and lie. Tristan’s troubled and hidden origins deprive him of a foundational place in the world. Like Roland and Alexis, he stands apart from worldly belonging. But unlike them, his detachment signals a missing sense of identity. It is difficult to imagine Alexis, Roland, or even Gauvain or Lancelot, lying and dissembling like Tristan. The story of Tristan’s origins as told by Gottfried shows us that the rea32. For a discussion of Tristan’s storytelling, see David Levin, “A Tell-tale Tale: Recounting Origins in Tristan,” New German Review: A Journal of Germanic Studies 5 and 6 (1989–90): 56–74. Levin relates Tristan’s flair for storytelling to a need to reformulate the narrative of his confused origins, and more generally as a self-conscious reflection of Gottfried’s own relationship to his source narrative. Yet, Tristan tells these stories and experiences troubled identity before learning the truth of his origins—a fact neglected by both Levin and Gottzmann. Tristan’s tendency to invention seems to derive not just from confusion regarding his origins, but from something more innate. 33. Disguise, pseudonyms, and blurring of identity are common practices among the trouvères and their southern counterparts, the troubadours. This aspect of Tristan’s identity is particularly apparent in Gottfried’s “Tantris” episode, which shows him taking on a pseudonym and winning the favor of the Irish by singing and harping.

210  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion sons for Tristan’s anguished existence are set long before he drinks the love potion with Iseut. A protean and drifting character, his fickle identity, whether inborn or circumstantial, reflects a placelessness both external and internal. When he and Iseut drink the love potion, the failure of his tenuous attempts to belong at Mark’s court is sealed. But before this, the lovers meet and come to know each other as people still free of the fate that will come to define them. I will now examine this brief period of the lovers’ story.

The c ouple bef ore the p otion The story of the fatal passion that binds Tristan and Iseut to one another represents, beyond a doubt, the irreducible core of this medieval legend. The origins of their passion in a love potion, their secret and forbidden encounters, and their tragic death: this is what is commonly known and remembered about the story. In studies such as Denis de Rougemont’s seminal L’Amour et l’occident,34 it is presented as no less than the great European myth of adultery, one that has permanently shaped and transformed the Western world’s vision of love and marriage. The mythical loves of Tristan and Iseut have inspired myriad reworkings in literature and in other art forms. They have also generated copious scholarly studies. My objective here is not to offer a detailed study of the TristanIseut couple but to examine one aspect of the lovers’ tale in particular: how different spaces, and the bonds of place they sometimes encompass, play a role in their story. As a reminder, Tristan and Iseut’s initial acquaintance takes place in Ireland, the third and final spatial framework of the first “half ” of the romance (the first being Parmenie and the second Cornwall). The two come together with essentially mismatched experiences of family and belonging. Despite the similarity of their genealogy and status—each is the only child of a king and queen—the lived reality of their respective belongings could 34. Denis de Rougement, L’Amour et l’occident, Coll. 10/18 (Paris: Librarie Plon, 1972).

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  211 hardly be more different. Tristan is the orphaned son of somewhat frivolous parents, raised with care, but precociously duplicitous and detached from the family he believes to be his own. Iseut, on the other hand, is the adored daughter of a father powerful enough to vanquish King Mark and a mother masterful in the arts of healing and magic. She too was raised with care, but remains wholly attached to her family and people. Inherent in the relationship between Tristan and Iseut lies a dynamic encounter of two different types of belonging to place: one precarious and one strong. The imperative of passion imposed by the love potion transforms this dynamic considerably, but not entirely. We can perceive echoes of the lovers’ respective experiences of place until the moment of their death.

Morholt When Tristan returns from avenging his father in Parmenie (G), he finds Cornwall in a pitiful state of affairs: Morholt, fierce enforcer of the rule of Gurmun, King of Ireland, has come to demand tribute from King Mark. (E lacks the revenge episode, and instead designates the battle against Morholt as the occasion in which Tristan reveals his true identity and begins his knightly career. Aside from this divergence, E does not differ substantially from G in its account of the Morholt episode. In B and T, apart from occasional allusions to the Morholt story, this part of the romance has not survived.) In this way, a situation of ominous foreshadowing is created: Iseut’s Ireland is pitted in the position of cruel oppressor visà-vis Mark’s Cornwall. The places to which, respectively, this future husband and wife belong imply that each has been brought up to consider the other as an enemy.35 Iseut, it must be remembered, is not just any woman. She is the daughter of a king who, every five years, takes thirty Cornish and English youths to Ireland as bonds35. At the same time, Cornwall, England, Wales, and Ireland all share a larger common identity, as countries of Celtic background. This shared identity helps to explain why Iseut’s parents are not loath to give her away in marriage to King Mark.

212  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion men. This aspect of Iseut’s identity, which implicitly casts Mark in the position of victim, is present from the moment her uncle arrives on the scene to claim his tribute. Instead of fortifying Tristan’s place in court, as one would expect, the Morholt feat brings about the early disintegration of his standing there. In this sense, the poisoned wound he receives from Morholt serves to symbolize Tristan’s ever-more-apparent estrangement from his new belonging in Cornwall. The wound foreshadows, of course, the incurable “wound” of his potion-induced passion for Iseut, for which the battle with Morholt provides the impetus. In a cruel irony, it also emblematizes the debilitating damage wrought by his salvational deed. From this point on, Tristan is anathema to the court; his “woundedness” in this regard is unmistakable. Because Mark declares Tristan his heir, and because the protagonist has put the barons to shame by his bravery, hie mite wart des hazzes mê, des nîdes aber dô mê dan ê, den sî Tristande truogen, und begunde ouch an genuogen ûz brechen alsô sêre, daz sîz in dô nie mêre vor verhelen kunden und ime ze manegen stunden die gebærede buten und diu wort, daz er ervorhte den mort und was in den sorgen ie, daz si eteswenne und eteswie den rât inein getrüegen, daz sî in mortlîche erslüegen (G, vv. 8369–82)

At this their malice only mounted, the envy they bore Tristan increased more than ever and began to break out in many of them with such virulence that they could not hide it from him any longer, and adopted such an attitude towards him and such language, time and

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  213 again, that he went in fear of his life and was in constant anxiety that sometime, somehow, they would conspire to murder him. (p. 151)

The legend of Tristan and Iseut is most often considered as a story of tragic love; however, it is also a tale of the ravages of human hatred and envy. The terrible stench of Tristan’s wound, mirroring the rancid rottenness now infecting his belonging at Mark’s court, leads to his second departure from “home”: he places himself in a barque and leaves Cornwall. This first in a series of exiles, voluntary and imposed, is the result of his self-sacrifice on behalf of the men who will grow to hate him. The battle with Morholt takes place on an island in both E and G. Interestingly, both German texts locate similarly the drinking of the love potion. E situates the episode in a halt on land during the sea voyage from Ireland to Cornwall, and in G, the lovers drink the potion on the ship as it lies anchored on an island. From the Carlisle fragment of Thomas, which recounts the potion episode, it is unclear whether the drinking takes place at sea; however, Brother Robert’s Saga version, which follows T closely, reveals no such island halt. Why do the German poets place both episodes on an island? Perhaps the momentous occasion of the love potion calls for the stasis of land, although iconography often portrays the episode on the sea. It is also possible that the poets wished to create symmetry between the episode in which Tristan and Iseut first come into indirect contact—the battle between Tristan and Morholt, without which the two may never have met—and the drinking of the potion. Daniel Reig highlights the connection between islands and le merveilleux: “The island is therefore a place where everything is possible because there, nature is exactly the reverse of the world or the world inside out.”36 Such a reversal of order is precisely what occurs in Tristan’s two island scenes: Tristan defeats Morholt against 36. “L’île serait donc un lieu où tout est possible car la nature y est exactement l’envers du monde ou le monde à l’envers” (Daniel Reig, ed., Île des merveilles: mirage, miroir, mythe, Colloque de Cerisy [Paris: L’Harmattan, 1997], 8).

214  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion all odds, and the lovers drink the potion. Both represent instances in which spatiality is used to convey a deeper meaning. Despite the knightly prowess he shows in the Morholt episode and later, Tristan never convincingly achieves the ideal knightly caliber of a Roland or Lancelot. Displays of Tristan’s bravery alternate with reminders of his woundedness and alienation, and somehow, the latter leave a stronger impression. It is they, not knighthood, that lie at the heart of his identity, and they are intimately related to the hero’s deep-seated placelessness. Tristan’s attempt to create a belonging in Cornwall by confronting Morholt only fortifies his outsider status there. It leads directly to one year of exile under an assumed identity in Ireland, an enemy land whose people would kill him if they knew who he was. What saves Tristan then, as always, is his ability to effortlessly exchange one place, one identity, for another. Lastly and most obviously, the Morholt episode has the effect of bringing Tristan and Iseut together. Morholt is Iseut’s maternal uncle, as Mark is Tristan’s. The respective family structures of the future lovers are curiously reversed and interwoven: Tristan loses his parents but has his maternal uncle; Iseut has her parents but loses her maternal uncle; Iseut’s father is Mark’s enemy; Tristan kills Iseut’s uncle; Iseut marries Tristan’s uncle; both Tristan and Iseut give up their homeland for Mark. In this way, the two do not meet just as individuals but as part of a constellation of disharmonious relationships. Ironically, it is through Morholt’s death and the consequent encounter of Tristan and Iseut that peace between Cornwall and Ireland will finally be achieved (after Tristan skillfully arranges the marriage of Mark and Iseut). This peace of two formerly warring nations, however, almost immediately gives way to the internal conflict caused in Cornwall by Tristan and Iseut’s illicit love.37 37. It is striking proof of their animosity and cowardice that Mark’s malicious barons prefer to see the king marry the daughter of their oppressor than to allow Tristan, their savior, to inherit Mark’s kingdom. Peggy McCracken argues that Iseut’s adultery helps to deflect attention from and thereby diffuse already existing political tension in Cornwall in The Romance of Adultery (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1998), see chap. 3, esp. 98–108. Also important for McCracken’s argument is Christiane Marchello-

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  215 In E, the Morholt battle is the occasion for Iseut’s first appearance in the narrative. The Irish witnesses send for her so that she might see “iren herren” (“her lord” [v. 947]) alive, but also because “sú kund ertznÿ mer / wann in dem rich ÿergen ain man” (“She knew more about medicine than any other man in the kingdom” [vv. 954– 55]). As soon as she receives the message, she crosses the sea, but she arrives too late and finds Morholt already dead. She herself finds the fragment of Tristan’s sword—which will identify him later as her uncle’s killer—in Morholt’s wound.38 Clearly, Eilhart perceived the importance of the Morholt episode in bringing Tristan and Iseut together. He used it to create a scene that announces the poem’s ending, in which Iseut crosses the sea to reach Tristan, her lord, in time to cure him, but arrives too late.

Tantris The wound that Tristan receives in his battle with Morholt leads to his first banishment from human society. It takes on such a repugnant stench that no one will approach him, save the king, the senechal Dinas, and Governal (E, vv. 1082–85). Before he undertakes the sea voyage to Ireland and assumes the identity of Tantris, the wound alters Tristan’s very being, making him unrecognizable: 39 unz ez [daz gelüppe] im al den lîp ergienc und eine varwe gevienc sô jæmerlîcher hande, daz man in kûme erkande (G, vv. 7275–78) Nizia, “Amour courtois, société masculine et figures du pouvoir,” Annales: Economies, Sociétés, Civilisations 36, no. 6 (1981): 969–82. 38. In E, Iseut is shown grieving her uncle’s death and curing Tristan’s poisoned wound, while G transfers these functions onto Iseut’s mother, Queen Iseut. In both poems, however, the young Iseut “discovers” Tantris/Tristan’s true identity. In parallel to his greater development of the Rivalin and Blanchefleur story, Gottfried also gives a more significant role to Iseut’s parents than does Eilhart, especially Queen Iseut. 39. The theme of an unrecognizable Tristan is a recurrent one and is especially central to the Folies poems.

216  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion till it [the poison] suffused his whole body, which then assumed a hue so wretched that one scarcely recognized him. (p. 138)

It is commonly thought that Tristan, an ideal knight before drinking the love potion, loses his exemplary status only due to the potion’s effects. The repulsive injury he receives from Morholt indicates otherwise. Even before drinking the love potion, Tristan is literally rotting from a wound received through knightly bravery, and both E and G emphasize the wound’s repugnant and isolating effects. We see here what differentiates Tristan so radically from other works of his time: a courageous act in defense of place that would bring honor and acclaim to most knights brings Tristan only putrefaction. Indeed, Tristan’s knightly exemplarity sets off a cycle of injuries and displacements, of attempts at healing and at homecoming, that will end only with his death. Tristan, who can play the part of knight very convincingly, is in many ways an anti-knight, for he turns knighthood inside out, inverting its qualities and rewards and problematizing its values. This troubling quality of Tristan’s knightly identity is present even before the fatalistic potion is drunk; how much more disquieting it will be when a magically induced, adulterous, and treasonous love enters the picture. While it is true that Tristan has little choice but to stay at a distance from society because of the wound’s stench, his decision to go off to sea is his own. Everyone, including himself, expects him to die, but instead of awaiting death with his three caretakers, he resolves to die alone in a little skiff: “dar inn wölt er allain sin / und uff dem sterben” (“therein he wanted to be alone and to die” [E, vv. 1098–99]). In contrast with Eilhart, who emphasizes the entirely unwilled character of Tristan’s arrival in Ireland (he gets into the skiff to die, but the waves bring him to the enemy country, where he can be saved), Gottfried shows Tristan deciding to sail for Ireland to seek Queen Iseut’s cure.40 Either way, however, he willfully takes to the sea when 40. This contrast between the two poets’ portrayal of the willed/unwilled nature of Tristan’s sea voyage represents a reversal of his initial voyage to Cornwall, which G pres-

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  217 confronted with misfortune, his woundedness translating into exclusion from society. Tristan returns to the sea almost as one returns home, for refuge and comfort in times of trouble. (Needless to say, that he should find the consolations of home at sea offers testament to Tristan’s radical estrangement from any normal experience of home, which typically involves some sort of human connection.) Tristan’s voluntary self-exile from Cornwall causes him to remember his first, original homeland. In both E and G, he instructs Governal to await his return for one year and then to presume him dead and return to his father’s land. At that time, Governal should ask Tristan’s father to make him his heir, treating Governal as he would Tristan (E). Thus, Tristan’s renunciation of his paternal heritage, already told by Gottfried, also appears in E, but at a different moment of the story. In each case, Tristan’s departure on the sea for Ireland recalls to his mind his first homeland. It is as though he were cognizant of the fact that, once again, he is leaving behind a belonging. Eilhart chooses this moment to tell us, as did Gottfried at an earlier point, that Tristan has relinquished his original inheritance (see E, vv. 1113–23). Upon arriving in Ireland, where anyone from Cornwall is in danger of summary execution due to Tristan’s killing of Morholt, Tristan reveals for the first time his extraordinary talent for disguise. Mortally ill though he is, he dresses himself in tattered clothes and drifts upon the waves, singing and harping. He presents himself to the Irish as a court minstrel turned greedy merchant who has been robbed and wounded by pirates. Protected by his disguise, he is free to express his desire to be “where there are people,” and the theme is repeated like a chorus: “Und helfet mir, dâ liute sîn!” (“Help me to where there are people” [G, v. 7610]); “Wir bringen dich, dâ liute ents as unwilled and E as willed. While G highlights the hero’s increasing sense of purpose, from childhood to adulthood, E underlines Tristan’s diminishing sense of purpose, slowly draining him of hope and power as he progresses through the story. In E, from the moment Tristan receives the wound from Morholt, he is in the hands of fate. (This notion is reinforced by E’s account of the bird bringing Iseut’s hair to Cornwall. In keeping with the tendency I described above, Gottfried vehemently attacks this story.)

218  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion sint” (“We shall take you to where there are people” [v. 7618]); “Des lobe ich den heilant, / daz ich doch under liuten bin!” (“The lord be praised that I am with people again!” [vv. 7630–31, p. 142]). Tristan, who almost never expresses his dependency vis-à-vis other humans, seems more capable of doing so under an assumed identity, leading us to wonder whether the feelings he expresses are genuine.41 In the Tantris episode, as in many other instances in which Tristan disguises himself, the disguise represents a means for the hero of preserving his life in the face of mortal danger. In addition to the disguise, Tristan ingeniously invents a story designed to inspire pity in his listeners. Scholars have often noted, as does Mireille Demaules in the “Répertoire” of the Pléiade edition, that “le masque du déguisement sert à dévoiler la vérité cachée de l’amour qui est une aliénation, une folie ou une maladie” (“The disguise’s mask serves to unveil the hidden truth of love that is an alienation, a folly, or a sickness”).42 At the time of the Tantris episode, however, love has not yet been born; even before the alienation brought on by Tristan and Iseut’s illicit love, Tristan finds it necessary to hide his true identity. In doing so, he invariably lowers his social status, this time pretending to be a minstrel. (His disguises take on an increasingly marginalized character—for example, leper and fou—as the narrative progresses, acting perhaps as a metaphor for his ever worsening inner estrangement.) This lowered social status cleverly ensures that he will not be seen as threatening to the Irish. A true outsider, Tristan demonstrates a keen ability to manipulate social structures and preconceptions to his own advantage. The hero plays the role of minstrel, or trouvère,43 so convincingly 41. In this sense, Tristan is an unusually opaque and unreliable character: he is so masterful at disguising himself that both the story’s characters and we as readers find it difficult to determine what is and is not genuine in him. See Blakeslee’s discussion of Tristan’s disguises, Love’s Masks, 59–95. 42. Mireille Demaules, “Répertoire,” in Tristan et Yseut: Les premières Versions européennes, 1629–30. 43. On the definition of these terms, see Edmond Faral (Les Jongleurs en France au moyen âge [1910; New York: Burt Franklin, 1970], 84–86, 106). For an introduction to the

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  219 that the queen asks him to tutor her daughter Iseut. More than any of the other roles he takes on, that of trouvère comes closest perhaps to fitting his true nature. Tristan’s identity as an expert composer of lais, harpist, and singer is central to Marie de France’s Lai du Chèvrefeuille and an episode included in Gerbert de Montreuil’s Continuation de Perceval, “Tristan Menestrel.” Even when he is disguised as a fou, he evokes his musical talents (“Ben sai tenprer harpe e rote / E chanter aprés a la note” [“I know well how to play the harp and rote / and to sing on key,” Folie Oxford (Fo), vv. 521–22]).44 A trouvère (or troubadour, his southern predecessor) composes poems and sets them to music. While some trouvères were of elevated social status, many found in their art a source of livelihood. Such a trouvère’s existence was nomadic and precarious, for he depended on the generosity of a patron. He was defined not only by his devotion to his lady (who, as Pierre Bec explains, “must be married”),45 according to the precepts of fin’amor, by also by his ability to assume different identities, or senhal, as he sings.46 It is fair to say that in many ways, the trouvère persona fits Tristan like a glove. It seems suitable that he should take it as his first disguise and that Iseut should first know him thus.47 persona and art of the troubadours, see E. Hoepffner, Les Troubadours (Paris: A. Colin, 1955); Bec, Nouvelle Anthologie (7–83); or F. R. P. Akehurst and Judith M. Davis, eds., A Handbook of the Troubadours (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995). 44. For the Folies of Oxford and Bern (Fo and Fb), all citations refer to M. Demaules’s 1995 Pléiade edition in Tristan et Yseut: Les premières Versions européennes. English translations are mine. 45. Bec, Nouvelle Anthologie, 18. 46. As Irénée Cluzel points out, Bernart de Ventadour, troubadour par excellence, took the name Tristan as his senhal in four different pieces and referred to his story in a canso. Cluzel, “Les plus anciens Troubadours et la légende amoureuse de Tristan et d’Iseut,” in Mélanges de linguistique et de littérature romanes à la mémoire d’István Frank (Saarbrücken, Germany: Universität des Saarlandes, 1957), 155–70, quotation on 159–60. On the subject of the implications of Bernart’s references to Tristan for the study of Old French sources, see also Léopold Sudre, “Les Allusions à la légende de Tristan dans la littérature du moyen âge,” Romania 15 (1886): 534–57; and J. L. Deister, “Bernart de Ventadour’s reference to the Tristan story,” Modern Philology 19 (1921–22): 287–96. 47. Initially, Iseut does not question the hero’s Tantris identity. However, after he kills the dragon (thus winning the right to her hand), she astutely notices the discrepancy

220  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion It is thus that under the false identity of Tantris, Tristan finds a rather happy second home with Iseut’s family, in the land of his enemies. Gottfried takes care to assert that he only leaves because he is afraid of being discovered (see vv. 8151–62). When Tristan returns to Cornwall after almost one year’s absence, he gushes with previously unexpressed praise for the princess Iseut (G, vv. 8252–8304) and feels that he is “ein niuborner man” (“a man newborn” [v. 8317, p. 151]). His joy stands in direct opposition to the envious displeasure of the court. Rumors spread that he is a sorcerer and his feats accomplished through witchcraft. From this point on, the barons’ animosity toward Tristan becomes overt, and Tristan fears for his life just as he did in Ireland. As a solution, he encourages Mark to grant his barons’ wishes and take a bride. Mark resists, citing his desire to make Tristan his heir and the longstanding feud with the Irish, but is won over. He has fallen in love with Iseut through Tristan’s words (vv. 8509–20). Once again, Tristan heads back to Ireland to win Iseut for his uncle, declaring as he arrives that “den muoz ich liegen disen tac, / swaz ich in geliegen mac” (“I must lie to them for all I am worth today” [vv. 8709–10, p. 155]).48 It is clear that, as himself, Tristan is safe nowhere (except perhaps on the sea). Each renewed sea voyage coincides with a new identity—a new lie—and a different threat to his life.

Winning Iseut Tristan’s actions during his second excursion to Ireland reveal the deep and hidden motivation that drives him to accomplish such great deeds. This hero achieves typical knightly feats for highly atypical ends: giving no thought to his own advancement or fame, he gives his prowess entirely over to Mark’s service. Tristan’s primary between his supposed social position as minstrel and the nobility implied by his prowess, declaring, “Got hêrre, dû hâst ime gegeben / dem lîbe ein ungelîchez leben” (“Lord, Thou hast given him a station in life out of keeping with his person!” [G, vv. 10035–36, p. 173]). 48. This passage offers a rare glimpse into Tristan’s awareness of his own duplicity. Most often, he appears to change identities effortlessly and almost without reflection.

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  221 goal in returning to Ireland, in vanquishing the dragon or in killing Morholt, is to make a safe place for himself in his uncle’s kingdom. He does everything for Mark, not so much with a goal of selfless service, but with the objective of creating for himself a reliable belonging. He can see no other form of belonging but this: not his father’s kingdom, not his own marriage, but only Mark, his sole blood relative. What Tristan needs most is to belong somewhere. To this end, the most impossible of efforts and the most painful sacrifices seem worthwhile. Indeed, he is blind to everything else. Both Eilhart and Gottfried offer abundant hints that Tristan and Iseut are particularly well suited for each other, even before they drink the love potion, making Tristan’s subsequent renunciation of her hand in marriage all the more strange. During the Tantris episode, Tristan becomes Iseut’s tutor in an arrangement strongly reminiscent of the story of Abelard and Heloise.49 Iseut, especially, seems taken with Tristan/Tantris after he slays the dragon to win her hand. In Iseut’s mind, the man who slays the dragon will be her future husband. She stares at Tristan, scanning his body “ûz der mâze” (translated by Hatto as “with uncommon interest” but more literally rendered as “beyond measure” [v. 9997, p. 173]). She declares herself astounded that such a refined and physically perfect person should have such a low station, repeating this thought often. In E, Iseut is easily convinced by her maid Brangien that Tristan is an excellent catch, even though he killed her uncle. She seems pleased by the prospect of their union, and argues his case before her father. One cannot help but imagine her disappointment when 49. The Historia Calamitatum was composed around 1132, and several twelfth-century chronicles refer to the story of Abelard and Heloise (see B. Radice’s introduction to her translation of The Letters of Abelard and Heloise [London: Penguin Books, 1974], 45–47). It is therefore likely that Gottfried had at least heard of the famous lovers. Tony Hunt suggests that “the Tristan story evoked comparisons with the celebrated love of Héloise and Abelard” (“Abelardian Ethics and Béroul’s Tristan,” Romania 98 [1977]: 501–40, quotation on 538), underlining in support of his suggestion the role of Tristan’s musicianship in his meeting Iseut. An even more convincing argument for the comparison of the two stories can be found in Gottfried’s portrayal of Tristan as Iseut’s tutor.

222  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion she learns that she will be married to Mark instead, for when her father gives Tristan her hand, her joy is apparent: umb die maÿt schön Trÿstrand den küng do mannet. der kúng sie im do nit versagte. deß waß dú maid frow (vv. 2226–29)

As for the beautiful maiden, Tristan reminded the king of his promise. The king did not refuse her to him. The maiden was pleased at this.

If one accepts the premise that Tristan and Iseut are attracted to one another before drinking the potion, or even simply that Iseut is as desirable as portrayed, then one cannot help but wonder why Tristan does not accept the justly earned reward of marrying Iseut himself. His decision to renounce his claim to Iseut’s hand is more easily understood within Gottfried’s account of this episode: he goes to Ireland with the express purpose of winning her for Mark. To renege subsequently by taking her as his own wife would be dishonorable. Eilhart’s version of events, however, makes Tristan’s abnegation more mysterious. In E, Mark puts off his barons’ insistence that he take a wife by promising to marry the owner of the blond hair dropped from a swallow’s beak, never dreaming that the woman could be found. Tristan’s refusal to take Iseut as his own wife hinges solely upon his belief that she is the owner of the blond hair—the woman promised to Mark. This is fundamentally a question of vision: Tristan’s perception compels him to see Iseut from the beginning as for someone else. The extreme doubtfulness of his “recognition” of Iseut as the woman destined for his uncle is perhaps part of what so offended Gottfried in the “swallow with a hair” motif. The hair—a highly inconclusive piece of evidence to be sure—signals the almost willful role Tristan plays in creating the situation in which he soon finds himself.50 50. Scholars such as Gerhard Schindele (Tristan: Metamorphose und Tradition, Studien zur Poetik und Geschichte der Literatur 12 [Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1971], 23) and

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  223 Another significant aspect of these episodes that describe the lovers “pre-potion” is the prominent position they give to the place of Iseut. From the moment Tristan first comes into contact with Iseut’s uncle to the drinking of the love potion, most of the action takes place in Ireland.51 Unlike Tristan, Iseut is firmly attached to home. Both Eilhart and Gottfried take care to portray her parents’ loving concern for her, their worries over her education and betrothal, and their involvement in her life. Brangien, her cousin, also plays a prominent role in the portrayal of Iseut from this early point. In parallel, Iseut is deeply afflicted by her uncle’s death,52 eagerly chatters with her mother and Brangien about how she uncovered Tantris’s true name (G, vv. 10594–629), and weeps inconsolably upon leaving Ireland. As a place, Ireland is intensely feminine, portrayed primarily through three strong and resourceful women: Queen Iseut, Brangien, and most important, Iseut. In this way, the lovers’ experiences before drinking the love potion have Ireland as their center, and Ireland, more than anything else, is identified with Iseut. It is within her place that the lovers’ tale takes root: a place of danger, healing, magic, and femininity. Though Ireland is absent from the rest of the story as a spatial setting, its influence as a place pervades the tale through the character of Iseut. She highlights by contrast the difference between a person who once belonged in a place and then had to leave it, and a person like Tristan who never truly belonged anywhere—the difference between loss of place and placelessness. No matter how homesick and James Schultz (“Why Does Mark Marry Isolde? And Why Do We Care? An Essay on Narrative Motivation,” Deutsche Vierteljahrsschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Geistesgeschichte 61 [1987]: 206–22) have analyzed Gottfried’s disagreement with Eilhart over the “swallow with a hair” episode from the perspective of Mark’s decision to seek a bride. It is equally interesting to consider how this divergence between E and G leads to very different interpretations of Tristan’s subsequent refusal to take Iseut as his own wife. 51. In a different vein, James Carney offers a study of the many Irish sources of the Tristan tale. “The Irish Affinities of Tristan,” in Studies in Irish Literature and History (Dublin: Institute for Advanced Studies, 1955), 189–242). 52. Her eventual prudent forgiveness of Tristan, her uncle’s killer, stands in contrast to the precipitous revenge that Tristan inflicts upon Morgan, the murderer of his father.

224  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion foreign she may feel at times,53 she knows what it is to belong to a place, and is therefore more capable than Tristan of growing roots in her new place of Cornwall. These early episodes show that Iseut was brought up to thrive within a context of familial and societal attachment. It is important to remember the nature of Iseut’s relationship to her home in studying the lovers’ story, for her home is, in some sense, where their story begins.

The Potion and the Sea The episode in which the lovers drink the potion represents a crucial “pivot” between the two halves of the romance as I have defined them: the first being before the drinking of the potion, the second after. Each of these halves is structured by three spatial frameworks. The transition between each of the three spatial frameworks of the first half is effected by a sea voyage, as is the transition between the first half and the second in the love potion episode itself. Moreover, the drinking of the love potion takes place at the precise moment when Iseut is experiencing the sorrow of leaving home. Her departure from Ireland in G is particularly dramatic (vv. 11484–568). Her mother and father and all the court follow her to the harbor, where they stand weeping and lamenting. Iseut is disconsolate and lashes out at Tristan when he tries to comfort her, reproaching him for his trickery and deceit: ir alterseine habet mir disen kumber allen ûf geleit mit pârât und mit kündekeit. waz hât iuch mir ze schaden gesant von Kurnewâle in Îrlant? die mich von kinde hânt erzogen, den habet ir mich nu an ertrogen und füeret mich, in weiz wâ hin. (vv. 11586–93) 53. Tasker Grimbert offers an excellent discussion of Iseut’s experience of alienation

Tristan and Iseut before the Potion  225 You and you alone have saddled me with all this trouble, with your trickery and deceit. What spite has sent you here from Cornwall to my harm? You have won me by guile from those who brought me up, and are taking me I do not know where! (p. 193)

It is no coincidence that the potion—the uncontrollable coup de foudre of love—intervenes at the precise moment when Iseut is most vulnerable. Their spatial location on the sea between Ireland and Cornwall reflects perfectly Iseut’s suspended position between the belonging she has left behind and the one that lies ahead. The passionate love that presents itself at this moment of painful uprootedness brings Iseut into the precarious belonging already characteristic of Tristan (a point reinforced by the episode’s location at sea, which, although totally new for Iseut, represents Tristan’s “home”). At the exact moment when the bonds of place are most absent for her, due both to her departure from home and to her position at sea, the potion compels her into a most inopportune, yet terribly compelling, form of belonging. The actual drinking of the potion occurs during a halt called by Tristan for the sake of Iseut, who is distressed by the rapidity of the voyage.54 Her journey to Cornwall is one of only two sea voyages for Iseut (three in E), the other being her desperate attempt to reach Tristan at the end of the legend. In contrast with her final sea voyage (and her journey toward a dying Morholt in E), during which the lack of wind thwarts her efforts to arrive in time, the winds are favorable this time, and the trip goes by far too quickly for the lovers. In this case, as in so many others, the sea seems to have a design. At times, the sea acts advantageously, as when a storm blows up and forces the Norwegian merchants to release Tristan, or when in the Thomas tradition (“Love, Honor, and Alienation,” 79–85), reading a parallel between her experience and that of Tristan in G. 54. In the introduction to his translation of Eilhart, J. W. Thomas sees Iseut’s seasickness as a sign of the sea’s central role as an instrument of fate, and more specifically as an echo of Blanchefleur’s death on the sea. Eilhart von Oberg, Tristrant, trans. J. W. Thomas (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1978), 4–10.

226  Tristan and Iseut before the Potion the waves bring him to Cornwall; at other times, it opposes the lovers’ will, bringing them too swiftly back to an awaiting Mark or impeding Iseut from reaching Tristan. As previously discussed, the sea plays a fundamental role in the legend, and as a place it is fluid and constantly changing, uninhabited and uninhabitable. For these reasons, it does not have the associations with people and memory that have characterized our descriptions of place so far. Yet the sea clearly can take on meaning, and in that sense, it is indeed a place, albeit one that could only generate a belonging as transient and unstable as its watery medium. Tristan’s trip with Iseut is already his sixth sea voyage, and more than any other space, the sea suits the protagonist. Its instability echoes his own, and the unpredictable will that governs it reflects the mysterious forces at work in his life. It is fitting that Tristan and Iseut’s first days of lawless passion find their “place” on the sea. Indeed, they understand that the land threatens their passion: “Der wille wære der geschehen, / sine hæten niemer lant gesehen” (“Had they had their way they would never have seen land” [vv. 12423–24, p. 204]). The unruly instability of the sea expresses perfectly the profound impossibility of finding a true place for their love.

4  After the Potion

The unlawful, magically induced love shared by Tristan and Iseut is the legend’s most apparent and powerful locus of belonging. And yet, if we consider that belonging is typically associated with values such as stability, community, and identity, we see that their love, like so much else in the legend, represents yet another deficient form of belonging. In an incisive essay, Robert Castel evokes the systematic disaffiliation experienced by the lovers throughout the story: “Leur vie est un arrachement perpétuel par rapport à toutes les territorialisations familiales, sociales, géographiques” (“Their life is a perpetual tearing away from all familial, social, geographical territorializations”).1 This systematic disaffiliation (which resembles closely what I have referred to as “failed belonging” or “placelessness”) represents a subtle yet consistent thread that traverses the tale’s different versions. As we have seen, the legend’s first half deals almost exclusively with Tristan’s disaffiliation (Castel rightly asserts that the “arrachement perpétuel” originates with the protagonist), while in the second half Iseut will also be caught up in Tristan’s placelessness through the intervention of the potion. This chapter will examine the second half of the leg1. Robert Castel, “Le Roman de la désaffiliation. À propos de Tristan et Iseut,” Le Débat 61 (1990): 152–64, quotation on 154. The present study represents a further development of the issues raised by Castel.

227

228 After the Potion end, which begins after the lovers’ drinking of the potion and ends with their death (and, in some versions, burial). I will follow the same organization as in chapter 3, analyzing in order the three phases of the second half, with their corresponding spatial frameworks, as well as the three “hinge” episodes. (The hinge episodes enact the transition between spatial frameworks and also represent crucial moments in the story: thus, as in Alexis and Roland, spatiality both structures and mirrors poetic meaning.) The first phase depicts the lovers as they carry on their secret affair at Mark’s court (which offers this phase’s spatial framework), while the first hinge episode recounts Mark’s attempt to bring them to justice after discovering their adultery. The second phase takes place in the Morois forest, where the lovers live exiled after their banishment from Mark’s court. The second hinge episode tells of Iseut’s restitution to her husband Mark. In the third and final phase of the legend, Iseut remains at court with Mark while Tristan is banished, but the two continue to meet clandestinely and sporadically. Tristan’s marriage with Iseut of the White Hands also takes place during this time. There is no unified spatial framework for this phase, but rather frequent transitions between Cornwall and Tristan’s multiple locations. The last hinge episode, which does not mark a transition to a new phase of the legend but rather to the life of each poem as poem, recounts the lovers’ death.2 In this second half of the legend, a central and as yet largely unacknowledged role is played by the lovers’ betrayed spouses, King Mark and Iseut of the White Hands. As foils to the famous lovers, who are also their spouses, they highlight by contrast, through their very “normality,” the extraordinary nature of the lovers’ passion. If we consider how the two spouses experience the legend’s events, we see that they play roles analogous to that of Saint Alexis’s family. Repeatedly confronted with signs of the apparent betrayal of their 2. For a different interpretation of the episodic structuring of Gottfried, cf. Brigitte Hébert, “Passages et passion. Remarques sur l’initiation du héros dans le Tristan de Gottfried,” in Les Romans de Tristan de Gottfried von Strassburg et de Thomas d’Angleterre (Amiens, France: Presses de l’UFR de Langues, Université de Picardie-Jules Vernes, 1999), 29–34.

After the Potion  229 beloved, they grapple alternately with feelings of confusion, sorrow, loving acceptance, and rage as they attempt to understand what has happened to them without having access to the full truth. They provide the legend’s human face by showing us the effects of the tale on others. Or, to put it differently, they reveal to us how those who belong to place experience those who do not or cannot. In this chapter, I will give considerable attention to these important characters in an attempt to bring them “out of the background” and to illustrate their centrality to our understanding of place in the legend.3 The spouses are fundamental participants in the complex tensions of a double love triangle that informs the second half of the legend. As the lovers attempt to maintain their passion despite Tristan’s banishment from Cornwall, they are continually constrained by their respective spouses, whose presence ensures that the lovers’ union is constantly threatened (but also, perhaps, continually exciting). Each of these spouses is, in some sense, a chosen obstacle: Mark is chosen by both lovers as Iseut’s husband, and perhaps in particular by Tristan, who wins Iseut’s hand but then renounces her in Mark’s favor. In even clearer fashion, Iseut aux Blanches Mains is chosen solely by Tristan. It is thus Tristan who acts as the primary creator of the double love triangle. For him, both Mark and Iseut aux Blanches Mains represent failed attempts at belonging. In this sense, another double triangle can be seen, this time inverted—that of Tristan’s belonging. On one side, Tristan tries to find a place with Mark; on the other, with Iseut aux Blanches Mains; and in the center we have Iseut la Blonde, who prevents Tristan from fulfilling either belonging. In all scenarios, the two spousal figures play an essential role in keeping the story’s tensions from reaching resolution. In the end, however, they play a crucial part in giving closure to the tale: Iseut aux Blanches Mains by deceitfully expediting the lovers’ death, 3. Portions of this chapter dealing with Mark and Iseut aux Blanches Mains were previously published as Molly C. Robinson Kelly, “Tristan and Iseut’s Double Love Triangle: Some Thoughts on King Mark and Iseut aux Blanches Mains,” Proceedings of Romance Languages Annual, Purdue University, October 12–14, 2000 (Purdue University Press, 2004).

230 After the Potion and Mark by taking their bodies back to Cornwall to be buried (E). A close consideration of the legend’s second half from the perspective of place reveals several important truths. First, each poet’s account gives a more prominent role to secondary characters in the second half than in the first (especially those characters—Mark, Iseut aux Blanches Mains—who are most representative of social belonging). Second, a sharp divergence becomes clear between the “common” (B, E) and “courtly” (T, G) traditions of the legend with regard to place. In T and G, we see a gradual disintegration of all forms of belonging for the lovers, save that of their passion. In keeping with Tristan’s statement in T that “El beivre fud la nostre mort” (“The potion was our death” [v. 2649])4 and with the courtly tradition’s refusal to posit an end to the love potion’s effectiveness, the lovers’ slow death by “disaffiliation” begins the moment they drink the potion. In their progressive exile, all ties to place are steadily destroyed, and their tragic death, steeped in deliberate falsehood, represents the ultimate realization of their placelessness. In contrast, B and E portray a gradual restoration of place from the moment the potion loses its effectiveness. Accordingly, King Mark and Iseut aux Blanches Mains, as representatives of place, play a more important role in the common tradition as their destiny becomes increasingly intertwined with that of Tristan and Iseut. In keeping with B and E’s more Christian slant, spiritual healing and the reintegration of place are possible, even in this story of dark and sinful forces. Disintegration of place or restoration of place: as in much else, the courtly and common traditions also differ strongly in their treatment of place and belonging.

The Lovers at Mark’s C ourt The love potion episode represents therefore the “hinge” episode between the two halves of the legend. The drinking of the po4. All quotations from Thomas refer to Marchello-Nizia’s 1995 Pléiade edition in Tristan et Yseut: Les premières Versions européennes. English translations are mine.

After the Potion  231 tion during the sea voyage introduces a rupture between two sets of events—life in Ireland and life at Mark’s court—that might have conjoined harmoniously. Tristan’s exploits in Ireland are part of his attempt to make a place for himself at Mark’s court; Iseut, despite her sorrow at leaving home, sets off for Cornwall to become a queen, a destiny for which she has been raised; and the future marriage of Iseut and Mark promises to restore the rift between Ireland and Cornwall. The potion thus negates the many potential benefits of the marriage for these characters and their respective places. The potion takes away from Tristan and Iseut the freedom to establish a belonging for themselves other than in their passion. They are located within a place but remain disconnected from its meaning. The tension between their location in space and their inner allegiance requires them to maintain a constant state of duplicity. And yet, in many ways, this life of irreconcilable discord between internal and external place is their choice. Had they disembarked upon arriving in Cornwall and informed Mark of their predicament, it is not difficult to imagine the king renouncing his claim to Iseut and allowing the two to marry. The potion seems to have the effect of negating all choice and free will for the lovers, including that of choosing each other as life partner. Had they openly admitted to their passion and decided to marry, the constraint of the potion would have become, on some level, an exercise of free will. The need for duplicity seems to play an integral part in their passion. As Maurice Blanchot writes: La passion de Tristan et d’Yseult n’est pas une possibilité ..... Cela est l’étrangeté même, cela n’a égard ni à ce qu’il peuvent, ni à ce qu’ils veulent, cela les attire dans l’étrange, là où ils deviennent étrangers à euxmêmes, dans une intimité qui les rend, aussi, étrangers l’un à l’autre.5 The passion of Tristan and Yseult is not a possibility ..... It is strangeness itself, it cares neither what they can do, nor what they want, it 5. Maurice Blanchot, “Orphée, Don Juan, Tristan,” La Nouvelle Nouvelle Revue Française 15 (1954): 492–501 (quotation on 498).

232 After the Potion lures them into the strange, where they become strangers to themselves, in an intimacy that makes them, also, strangers to each other.

This estrangement from self and from other also has a powerful effect on their ability to belong. As the potion causes their passion to drain all else of meaning, it destroys their capacity to find belonging fully in the place of Cornwall, or indeed anywhere. In the set of episodes that take place while the lovers live together at Mark’s court, we can see the tension created when one lives within a place while refusing its meanings and values. Tristan and Iseut inhabit the court, choosing to remain because each of them finds comfort and security there. At the same time, their passion for each other undermines the values upon which the court is founded. These episodes underline the truth that places are anything but neutral: a place is based on a certain system of meanings. When those meanings are denied, disorder ensues. Because the lovers live at court, they must struggle to find a space in which to come together safely—a daunting task when their physical union represents a betrayal of place’s values. To complicate matters further, there is an imbalance between the respective positions of Tristan and Iseut at court. When Mark gives in to his barons’ demands and consents to take a wife, he thereby relegates Tristan to a secondary status in his kingdom. After renouncing his paternal inheritance, Tristan is, as Gottfried writes, “lantlôse” (“landless” [v. 5872]). It is probable that Tristan’s renunciation is at least partially motivated by Mark’s promise never to take a wife and to make Tristan his heir. When Mark reneges, Tristan’s position in Cornwall becomes more or less superfluous. Iseut’s place, on the other hand, is firmly established. The duality of her sexual life reflects a double belonging: she shares intimately Mark’s place on at least one level, as Mark does hers; and of course she also finds a form of belonging in her union with Tristan. In other words, through sexuality, she can remain attached to both Mark and Tristan, while Tristan can have only her. As long as Mark loves

After the Potion  233 Iseut, she will always have a place in Cornwall.6 Not so for Tristan. Mark and Iseut’s marriage means that Tristan will necessarily be excluded if Mark must choose between his wife and his nephew. (This is precisely what happens in the second half ’s third and final phase.)

Kin g Mark’s Justice The first hinge episode of the second half shows Mark finally heeding his barons’ constant accusations of adultery against Iseut and Tristan and attempting to punish them for their transgression. The prominent role played by Mark in this episode announces his importance in determining the nature of the lovers’ place in the second half of the legend.7 Béroul in particular lays out Mark’s function, as well as the belonging he represents, with considerable richness and complexity. As I have noted, the neglected spouses and Mark in particular give definition to place by showing us how those who belong to place experience those who do not. Two episodes are 6. Iseut herself is aware of this fact; she boasts to Brangien about Mark, “Emvers mei ad si grant amur, / Nus n’i porreit metre haür. / Nuls ne nus poreit tant medler / Que sun cors puise de mei sevrer” (“Toward me he has so great a love that none could put hatred there. None could put us in such a quarrel that he could wean his body from me” [T, vv. 1633–36]). 7. There is a fair amount of scholarship on the subject of King Mark in the Tristan legend. Helaine Newstead (“King Mark of Cornwall,” Romance Philology 11 [1958]: 240– 53), Fanni Bogdanow (“Theme and Character: The Two Faces of King Mark,” in Actes du XIVe Congrès International Arthurien [Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 1984], 1:89–109), and Robert Surles (“Mark of Cornwall: Noble, Ignoble, Ignored,” Arthurian Interpretations 3, no. 2 [1989]: 60–75) offer studies of the king’s role in the legend in general; Diana Tyson (“Some Thoughts on the Character of King Mark in Béroul’s Tristan,” Annuale Mediaevale 20 [1981]: 67–75) and Peter Noble (“Le Roi Marc et les amants dans le Tristan de Béroul,” Romania 102 [1981]: 221–26) deal mainly with Béroul; and Silvia Konecny (“Tristan und Marke bei Gottfried von Straßburg,” Leuvense Bijdragen 66 [1977]: 43–60), Albrecht Classen (“König Marke in Gottfrieds von Strassburg Tristan: Versuch einer Apologie,” Amsterdamer Beiträge zur Älteren Germanistik, 35 [1992]: 37–63), and Danielle Buschinger (“Le personnage de Marke dans le Tristan de Gottfried von Straßburg,” in Der Hahnrei im Mittelalter / Le Cocu au Moyen Âge. Actes du Colloque du Centre d’Études Médiévales de l’Université de Picardie Jules Verne, 25 et 26 mars 1994 [Greifswald, Germany: Reineke-Verlag, 1994], 25–36) with Gottfried. To my knowledge, however, Mark’s importance in giving the lovers a place, in life and in death, and the repercussions of his role in Eilhart’s conclusion have not yet been discussed.

234 After the Potion especially important in this “composition of place” by Mark: this first hinge episode of Mark’s vengeful attempt at justice, and the last hinge episode (as recounted by Eilhart and possibly Béroul) in which Mark learns the truth about the love potion after the lovers’ death and compassionately forgives and buries them. The two episodes stand as counterparts to one another. I will study them both in some detail, in particular with regard to Mark’s role and that of Ogrin, a figure in many ways closely related to that of Mark. Following Eugène Vinaver’s notion of B as text composed “lyriquement, musicalement, par motifs répétés et juxtaposes,”8 we could say that the place illustrated by Mark in the second half is composed of the motifs of loving fondness, wishful thinking, rage, sin, forgiveness, reading, misreading, writing, and memory. When they are caught in the act of lovemaking by the dwarf Frocin’s flour trap, Tristan and Iseut are condemned by Mark, without trial, to be burned at the stake. Béroul repeatedly insists that, apart from the three evil barons and the dwarf, few agree with the king’s merciless stance in the matter. First, Béroul evokes the townspeople who, although aware of Tristan and the queen’s illicit affair, angrily accuse the barons of treachery and lament the couple’s fate: “Qel damage qu’en traïson / Vos ont fait prendre cil gloton!” (“What a shame that those scoundrels treacherously had you caught!” [vv. 835–36]).9 They plead with Mark to at least give the two a fair trial, but he refuses, so full of rage that no baron dares intervene: Li rois fu mot fel et engrés; N’i ot baron tant fort ne fier Qui ost li roi mot araisnier Qu’il li pardonast cel mesfait (vv. 862–65). 8. Eugène Vinaver, “La Forêt de Morois,” Cahiers de Civilisation Médiévale 11 (1968): 1–13, quotation on 12. 9. For a discussion of the role played by the menu peuple in Béroul, see Jean-Charles Payen, “Le peuple dans les romans français de Tristan: la ‘povre gent’ chez Béroul, sa fonction narrative et son statut idéologique,” Cahiers de Civilisation Médiévale 23 (1980): 187–98.

After the Potion  235 The king is quite without pity and relentless; there is no baron however strong or proud who dares reason with the king that he should pardon this mistake.

In explaining Tristan’s escape through the chapel, Béroul indirectly criticizes Mark’s behavior by contrasting it with God’s mercy: “Oez, seignors, de Damledé, / Conment il est plains de pité; / Ne vieat pas mort de pecheor.” (“Hear, lords, of our lord God, how he is full of mercy; he doesn’t want the sinner’s death” [vv. 910–12]). In these few lines, Béroul prefigures the character of Ogrin, the wise hermit, and invites his audience to consider a notion that informs his entire poem: the mystery of God’s love for the sinner, according to the Christian faith. Within this perspective, God’s involvement with mankind is such that not even adulterous lovers such as Tristan and Iseut are beyond the reach of his grace.10 The king’s wrath continues to intensify, as does the people’s disagreement with his actions. Upon seeing the beautiful queen bound so tightly that she is bleeding, the seneschal Dinas implores the king to have mercy on Iseut and give her a fair trial. Once more, the king refuses “par ire.” After commenting that “Qui voit son cors et sa fachon, / Trop par avroit le cuer felon / Qui n’en avroit de lié pitié,” (“Whoever sees her body and face, would have a cruel heart indeed not to have pity on her” [vv. 1151–53]), Béroul’s narrator describes a scene in which Yvain, a leper, requests that instead of being burned at the stake, Iseut be given to him and his fellows as their whore. Mark readily agrees with Yvain’s proposal, because it is the worst fate imaginable: Onques ne fu dit tel maniere, Tant dolerose ne tant fire, Qui orendroit tote la pire 10. Tony Hunt argues convincingly for the presence of Abelardian ethics in Béroul’s poem, asserting that the poet seeks “to present an alternative view of their situation ..... namely the belief that appearances and reality are often at odds and that only God can judge the truth.” “Abelardian Ethics and Béroul’s Tristan,” Romania 98 [1977]: 501–40, quotation on 539. King Mark plays a central role in developing this alternative view contra Hunt, who sees them as simple “persecutor” of the lovers (539).

236 After the Potion Seüst, por Deu le roi, eslire, Que il n’eüst m’amor tot tens (vv. 1185–89)

Whoever told me of a way so painful and so cruel, a way that could bring on, right now, all the very worst, by God the king, he would have my love for all time.

The savagery of Yvain the Leper’s speech, which counterbalances that of Dinas and is one of the longest of the text, dispels any doubt about Mark’s cruelty in this episode. After escaping from the chapel, Tristan rescues Iseut from the lepers and flees with her to the Morois forest, where the lovers live in exile from society. Gottfried’s account of King Mark’s justice differs significantly from B. In G (the episode does not survive in T), the king imposes an ordeal on Iseut after catching the lovers with the flour trap. She succeeds in exculpating herself, but Mark’s suspicions are soon renewed, and the king sadly and rather nobly asks the lovers to leave: neve Tristan, mîn frouwe Îsôt, daz ich iu beiden den tôt oder iht herzeleides tuo, dâ sît ir mir ze liep zuo, des ich doch vil ungerne gihe ..... sît iuwer liebe sô grôz ist, sone wil ich iuch nâch dirre frist beswæren noch betwingen an keinen iuwern dingen. nemet ein ander an die hant und rûmet mir hof unde lant (vv. 16591–95, 16603–8)

Nephew Tristan, and my lady Isolde, I love you too much to put you to death or harm you in any way, loath as I am to confess it ..... Since your love is so great, from this hour I shall not vex or molest you in any of your concerns. Take each other by the hand and leave my court and country. (p. 259)

After the Potion  237 As the above quotation shows, G suggests a sorrowful resignation on the king’s part, as well as a certain acceptance that Tristan and Iseut’s love surpasses his understanding. By making Mark a sympathetic and courtly figure in this episode, G lays the groundwork for a more positive portrayal of the lovers’ banishment. In fact, one of the most significant elements distinguishing the common and courtly traditions of the legend can be found in their divergent portrayals of Mark, which culminate in his prominent role in E’s (and presumably B’s) ending, versus his absence in T.

The Morois F ore st In parallel with their conflicting portrayals of Mark’s behavior in evicting the lovers from court, the courtly and common traditions differ a great deal in how they depict this time of banishment. In the courtly tradition (here represented by G), the lovers’ sojourn in the Cave of Lovers (Gottfried uses the Old French term la fossiure a la gent amant) is an idyllic time of freedom from constraints. In contrast, the common tradition (here represented in very similar fashion by B and E) emphasizes the extreme hardship endured by Tristan and Iseut during their stay in the Morois forest. However, whether their banishment is seen as a horrible plight or a welcome respite from the constant interference of others, and whether Mark is seen as courtly or uncourtly, their exile in this episode signifies nonetheless the impossibility of integrating their love into society. The Morois / Cave of Lovers episode reveals that estrangement from society is the true nature of the lovers’ place. Until then, they physically inhabit a space (the Cornish court) while betraying it as place through their disloyalty toward its king. In banishment, the alienated placelessness of their love receives external, spatial expression.

Gottfried In keeping with King Mark’s civilized dismissal of the lovers and their departure “mit mæzlîcher nôt, mit küelem herzeleide” (“with

238 After the Potion moderate distress and cool regret” [vv. 16628–29, p. 259]), the Cave of Lovers in which Tristan and Iseut spend their exile is a place of considerable refinement. Mark, in sending them away, does not completely sever them from place, but instead gives them his blessing: “Vart ir beidiu gote ergeben” (“Go, the two of you, with God’s protection” [v. 16621, p. 259]). Thus, in some way, he comprehends their love as included in God’s plan. As the legend’s main representative of belonging and place, Mark’s words here are of critical importance in setting the tone for the lovers’ banishment. He may set them apart from society, but he does not reject outright the idea of their love. The cave in which the lovers find shelter bears the marks of civilization; indeed, it was designed by the giants in heathen times for the express purpose of lovemaking (see G, vv. 16683–7278, Hatto’s chap. 27). Gottfried takes care to describe its beauty: its inscribed bronze door, finely keyed vault, marble floor, and crystal bed dedicated to the Goddess of Love. Gottfried later writes of the bed, “Diu minne sol ouch kristallîn / durchsihtic und durchlûter sîn” (“Love should be of crystal—transparent and translucent!” [vv. 16987–89, p. 264]). The crystal bed recalls the “glass palace” image of the Folie Oxford (ca. 1180): “Reis,” fet li fol, “la sus en le air Ai une sale u je repair. De veire est faite, bele e grant ..... Delez la sale ad une chambre, Faite de cristal e de lambre” (vv. 301–3, 307–8)

King, says the fool, up there in the sky I have a great hall where I live. It is made of glass, beautiful and vast ..... next to the great hall is a chamber made of crystal and decorated with paneling.

As J.-C. Payen has pointed out, the image of a translucent abode evokes Tristan’s profound desire to find a place in which to express his and Iseut’s love without constraint.11 Moreover, the cave’s artis11. Jean-Charles Payen, “Le Palais de verre dans la Folie d’Oxford: de la folie métaphorique à la folie vécue, ou: le rêve de l’île déserte à l’heure de l’exil: Notes sur l’érotique

After the Potion  239 tic adornments, as well as its inscription within a history of lovers, give the cave many characteristics of a place. Through their sojourn there, Tristan and Iseut participate in an ongoing story of lovers who, over the centuries, have sought the privacy of this cave in order to give full and free expression to their love. Their banishment brings them to a new, albeit fantastical, place in which their intense passion can be celebrated.12 During their time in the cave, they need no food for their nourishment: “Si enâzen niht dar inne / wan muot unde minne” (“They fed in their grotto on nothing but love and desire” [vv. 16823–24]). They live in harmony with nature, telling love tales, playing the harp and singing, making love. Gottfried develops an extensive metaphor in which the lovers’ physical surroundings correspond to the various characteristics of love; most interestingly, the wilderness is seen to reflect love’s uncommon excellence. ouch hât ez guote meine, daz diu fossiure als eine in dirre wüesten wilde lac; daz man dem wol gelîchen mac, daz minne und ir gelegenheit niht ûf die strâze sint geleit noch an dekein gevilde; si lôschet in der wilde ..... swaz sô daz ôre hœren wil, und swaz dem ougen lieben sol, des alles ist diu wilde vol (vv. 17075–82, 17100–17102) des Tristan,” Tristania 5, no. 2 (1980): 17–27. In addition, as noted by Karl D. Uitti in his seminars, the image of glass, or veire, is often identified as a Celtic mythological referent to death. Such an image is present in Le Chevalier de la Charrette’s kingdom of Gorre (voire, verre), which for Lancelot is a Hades of sorts. In the Folie, the image is one of a locus amoenus, a sort of false Eden that expresses once again Tristan’s love-death connection. 12. In many ways, the artistic workmanship so evident in G’s Cave of Lovers must also be seen as a metaphor for the poem itself. Like the cave, Gottfried’s poem is a place where love’s glory is celebrated through artistry. It must be said, however, that just as the poem is not a real, physical place, so does the cave seem a dreamlike place of fantasy rather than an actual location.

240 After the Potion It also has its meaning that the grotto was so secluded in the midst of this wild solitude, in that one may well compare it with this—that Love and her concerns are not assigned to the streets nor yet to the open country. She is hidden away in the wilds ..... Whatever the ear yearns to hear, whatever gratifies the eye, this wilderness is full of it. (p. 265)

As we will see, such a positive view of the wilderness stands in stark contrast to Béroul and Eilhart’s vision of the Morois forest. For Gottfried, as indeed for the two poets of the “common” tradition, the space of the forest becomes a place infused with meaning—that of their love. The nature of this meaning—and therefore of this place— differs radically, however, depending on the version.

Béroul Béroul’s description of the lovers’ stay in the Morois forest diverges significantly from G. If this episode illustrates the nature of the lovers’ place once they are excluded from all other forms of belonging, then the outlook for them is dismal indeed. Through the use of concrete details, the narrator denotes the solitude and hardship of the lovers’ sojourn in the Morois forest (see B, vv. 1271–2764). He describes at length their struggle to find food: they lack milk and salt (v. 1297), although they have plenty of meat because Tristan is an excellent hunter. The narrator insists particularly on their lack of bread: (“Li pain lor faut, cë est grant deus” [v. 1425]; “Mot sont el bois del pain destroit” [v. 1644]).13 Their deep slumber is repeatedly evoked, suggesting their extreme fatigue. Their clothing is tattered: “Lor dras ronpent, rains les decirent” (v. 1647).14 In contrast with Eilhart, who shows the lovers living in a hut, Béroul emphasizes several times that they sleep in 13. All citations of Béroul refer to Daniel Poirion’s 1995 Pléiade edition in Tristan et Yseut: Les premières Versions européennes. English translations are mine. 14. For an excellent discussion of the figurative value of clothing in Béroul, see François Rigolot, “Valeur figurative du vêtement dans le Tristan de Béroul,” Cahiers de Civilisation Médiévale 10 (1967): 447–53. Rigolot explores in particular the significance of the clothing motif in the episodes surrounding Mark’s justice, the Morois banishment, and the restitution of Iseut. Cf. also McCracken, Romance of Adultery (75–80) and E. Jane Burns, Bodytalk: When Women Speak in Old French Literature (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1993), 210–13.

After the Potion  241 a different place every day. This constant mobility demonstrates that, even in the forest wilderness, there is no place for them. Nevertheless, despite their suffering, they bear their discomfort gladly out of love for one another: “Aspre vie meinent et dure; / Tant s’entraiment de bone amor / L’un por l’autre ne sent dolor” (“They lead a bitter and hard life; they love each other so much, of a good love, that they feel no pain for the other’s sake” [vv. 1364–66]). The deprivation Tristan and Iseut experience during banishment reduces them to an almost bestial state. Béroul makes it clear that they continue in this existence only because the potion gives them no other choice. As soon as the potion’s power wears off, each remembers the comforts of their former existence at Mark’s court, suddenly aware of all they have lost. Tristan recalls his life as Mark’s knight: Oublïé ai chevalerie A seure cort et baronie Ge sui essillié du païs, Tot m’est falli et vair et gris, Ne sui a cort a chevaliers ..... Ha! Dex, tant foiblement me vet! Or deüse estre a cort a roi (vv. 2165–69, 2172–73)

I have forgotten the life of knighthood, of court, and of barons, I am exiled from the country, I am deprived of everything, vair and squirrel fur, I am not at the knights’ court ..... Ah! God, all goes so poorly for me! I should be at the king’s court.

while Iseut evokes her role as queen: Les damoiseles des anors, Les filles as frans vavasors Deüse ensenble o moi tenir En mes chanbres, por moi servir, Et les deüse marïer Et as seignors por bien doner (vv. 2211–16)

242 After the Potion Maidens of honor, daughters of noble vavasseurs, should be gathering with me in my chambers to serve me, and I should be marrying them to lords for a good dowry.

When the potion, which had drained the significance out of their respective social roles by blinding them to all but their passion, loses its effect, their eyes are opened to the desirability of place. Free will, when restored, chooses belonging over passion. While their dedication to love appears in G as a heightened awareness of love’s transcendent value—its superiority to any other belonging—this same dedication is portrayed in B as blindness. Tristan and Iseut, under the influence of the potion, are unable to perceive properly the value of other forms of belonging. The Morois forest concretizes the burdensome, uncivilized character of their passion and renders the metaphorical placelessness of their love.15 This episode not only illustrates the essence of the lovers’ place according to Béroul, but also intimately intertwines their destiny with that of King Mark. In forcing Tristan and Iseut’s exile from court, Mark fulfills his role as the central force in the lovers’ societal belonging (as he did in G). In marked contrast to G, however, he is motivated by rage and the desire for revenge. He fully intends not only to exclude his nephew and wife from court but to put them to death without a trial. In this way, Mark’s rage sets the tone for their stay in the Morois forest. His determination to expel them not only from his sight but from existence means that their banishment will be a true exile—a total loss of place. King Mark’s importance in defining the lovers’ place continues, even during their exile. Béroul interweaves 15. In this sense, the figurative value of the Morois forest resembles that of the lovers’ clothing as discussed by Rigolot: “Le vêtement reprend à son compte une analyse psychologique que le poète refuse à ses personnages. Béroul se garde bien de révéler directement des états d’âme; il délègue ses pouvoirs de romancier à l’objet” (“Clothing takes on a psychological analysis that the poet refuses to his characters. Béroul guards against directly revealing frame of mind; he delegates his powers as romancer to the object” [“Valeur figurative,” 453]). L’objet, in this case, is the Morois forest. Similarly, Vinaver notes, “C’est à travers le monde des choses que s’exprime l’essentiel du récit” (“It is through the world of things that what is essential in the narrative is expressed” [“La Forêt de Morois,” 11]).

After the Potion  243 descriptions of the lovers’ hardships with anecdotes concerning King Mark. As mentioned, the lovers and the king are intimately involved in one another’s fate. During the lovers’ banishment, Béroul makes it evident that something important is also happening to Mark. The episode in which the lovers encounter the hermit Ogrin during their stay in the Morois forest offers insight into this intertwining of Mark’s and the lovers’ destiny. The lovers meet Ogrin twice: once before the potion has worn off and once after. Ogrin’s appearance in Béroul’s romance follows soon after the portrayal of Mark’s wrath in the judgment episode. After telling how Governal kills Yvain the leper and hides in the forest with Tristan and Iseut, Béroul interjects the story of how Frocin the dwarf, pressed by the barons, reveals the secret of Mark’s horse ears to the roots of a hawthorne bush. This brief scene has often been interpreted as a somewhat awkward allusion to a folkloric motif. A closer look at the juxtaposition of the episodes situated between Mark’s wrathful punishment of the lovers and the restitution of Iseut to her husband reveals an underlying coherence that elucidates the meaning not only of each episode and of the whole, but of the appearance of Ogrin in the poem. Following is a summary of these episodes.16 After the escape through the chapel17 and Iseut’s rescue from the group of lepers, the lovers’ harsh life in the forest begins with the evocation of Iseut falling asleep in Tristan’s arms (“Somel li prist, dormir se vot, / Sor son ami si com el sot” [vv. 1301–2]). Béroul then tells how the dwarf reveals Mark’s secret and is beheaded by a laughing Mark (vv. 1305–50): Li rois s’en rist et dist: “Ce mal Que j’ai orelles de cheval, 16. For another perspective on this sequence of episodes, see G. N. Bromiley, “The Order of the Forest Episodes in Béroul’s Tristan,” Neuphilologische Mitteilungen 79 (1978): 411–21. 17. By allowing Tristan to escape through a place of God, Béroul once more underlines that it is through divine intervention that Tristan the sinner is saved from death— and Mark from the sin of murder.

244 After the Potion M’est avenu par cest devin: Certes, ja ert fait de lui fin.” Traist l’espee, le chief en prent (vv. 1343–47)

The king laughs and says, “This misfortune of my horse-ears came to me by this soothsayer: to be sure, this will be the end of him.” He draws his sword and takes his head.

Again, B evokes the hardships of the forest, and then tells how the lovers chance upon Ogrin for the first time (vv. 1362–1422). The hermit gently exhorts them to repent of their sin and part ways, but each of them explains that the love potion makes this impossible. Saying no more, he prays that God help them repent, and he lets them stay with him for the night. Their hard life is described for the third time. At this point, another story is interjected that has often been explained as a folkloric motif: the tale of Tristan’s dog, Husdent.18 Husdent so pines for his master that he is set free, whereupon he follows Tristan’s scent until he finds him in the forest. The extremely difficult conditions in which the lovers find themselves are described for the fourth time; for the first time, both Tristan and Iseut begin to question the worth of their suffering (vv. 1637–55). While the two lovers are sleeping, Governal avenges Tristan by killing one of the evil barons, who happens to be out hunting (vv. 1656–1734). He hangs the baron’s head on the hut, which frightens Tristan when he awakes. Everyone in town is afraid to venture into the forest. Tristan goes out hunting: the lovers’ great suffering is evoked for the fifth time. The two fall asleep, dressed, with Tristan’s 18. B. A. Pitts interprets the Husdent scene as a sort of mise en scène of the process of memory. He sees in the dog’s resolute pursuit of Tristan’s path—his story—a parallel to Ogrin’s letter-writing (“The Path of Memory: Imagination and Repetition in Béroul’s Roman de Tristan,” Romance Quarterly 37 (1990): 3–17). Contra Pitts, cf. Donald Maddox, “Intratextual Rewriting in the Roman de Tristan of Béroul,” in “De sens rassis”: Essays in Honor of Rupert T. Pickens, ed. Keith Busby, Bernard Guidot, and Logan E. Whalen (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2005), 389–402.

After the Potion  245 sword placed between them. Informed by a woodsman of their whereabouts, King Mark goes to their hut with the intention of killing them while they are sleeping. Surprised by the signs of their innocence, he has pity on them and renounces his vengeance, leaving behind his sword, glove, and ring (vv. 1835–2062). The lovers misread these signs and, fearing for their lives, go all the way to Wales. Three years have passed since the lovers drank the love potion. Its power wears off as Tristan is hunting, and he immediately regrets how he has wronged Mark, giving up his duties as an honorable knight and taking the queen away from her life of luxury (vv. 2147–99). Iseut too misses her life as queen (vv. 2200–2220). The two decide together to try to reconcile with Mark and, remembering Ogrin’s lessons, return to him for advice. Overjoyed, the hermit writes a letter to Mark, who happily consents to take Iseut back but banishes Tristan upon the advice of his barons (vv. 2289–2650). This sequence of episodes is in fact highly structured, revolving around the central notions of sin (notably, anger and lust) and forgiveness (divine in origin). Interspersed reminders of the lovers’ exile serve as a leitmotiv for the sequence: Béroul insists repeatedly on their lack of bread, clothing, and permanent lodging—all signs of civilization and dignity.19 The above succession of scenes shows that Mark’s behavior “frames” Tristan and Iseut’s sojourn in the forest. His unchecked rage necessitates the lovers’ exile, but with the passage of time, his rediscovered tenderness for the queen allows her place—and his kingdom’s order—to be restored. In between these two framing scenes, Mark appears in two episodes: the dwarf ’s betrayal and the discovery of the sleeping lovers. Both of these episodes offer us insight into the king’s character. As mentioned, the brief scene in which the dwarf buries his head and reveals to the barons that Mark has horse ears is often considered as the textual recurrence of a folkloric motif, stemming 19. The lack of bread could also connote the lovers’ inability to receive the Eucharistic host while in exile, implying their alienation not only from society but from God.

246 After the Potion from mythology as well as the etymology of the name Mark (which means “horse” in Breton).20 However, the significance of this episode surpasses simple folklore on several levels. Most simply, it highlights the perfidy of the barons, whose disloyal will to embarrass Mark is made clear. More importantly, it shows the king embarrassed and vulnerable, trying to contain a secret he wants to hide. The embarrassment caused by the king’s ridiculous physical defect echoes that of the cuckolded husband. Considered from this angle, this sequence of scenes offers a fine psychological analysis of a man betrayed by the two people he loves most. Initially, he is full of rage and compelled to punish their betrayal. Once the punishment is accomplished and life resumes its normal course, however, he is left with the embarrassment of having been publicly made a fool and wonders if it would not have been preferable to keep it all secret. His anger then turns against the one who “revealed” the embarrassing secret: the dwarf. His laughter as he kills the dwarf reflects a wish to minimize his embarrassment. Significantly, Mark’s defect (the place of vulnerability) is situated in his ears. This echoes the fact that Mark is extremely dependent upon, hence vulnerable to, informants. The king realizes his vulnerability. When he witnesses the lovers’ contrived protestation of innocence in the orchard, he regrets having believed the dwarf ’s tales: “Porqoi cro je si fort outrage? / Ce poise moi, si m’en repent: / Mot est fous qui croit tote gent” (“Why did I believe something so outrageous? It weighs on me, and I repent: he is mad who believes everyone” [vv. 306–8]). Later, when the barons try to renew his suspicion, the narrator portrays him listening sorrowfully, head bowed: “Li rois l’entent, fist un sospir, / Son chief abesse vers la terre. / Ne set qu’il die, sovent erre” (“The king hears, gives a sigh, lowers his head towards the ground. He doesn’t know what to say, can’t stand 20. On the folkloric origins of the motif of Mark’s horse ears, see Gaël Milin (Le Roi Marc aux oreilles de cheval, Publications romanes et françaises 197 [Geneva: Droz, 1991]). For a discussion more specific to Béroul’s use of the motif, see Milin, 259–315.

After the Potion  247 still” [vv. 610–12]). Almost all information comes to Mark through the mediation of others, and often it is bad information. Parallel to the text’s concern with the notion of truth, we find a definite preoccupation with the idea of false information. Tristan’s rival in Ireland claims that he killed the dragon. Mark contends constantly with information given him by others, especially in trying to determine whether Tristan and Iseut are lovers. Iseut makes an ambiguous oath. Iseut of the White Hands tells Tristan the sail is black. Mark’s unusual ears seem to stand as a symbol for all that can go wrong in the reception of information. Howard Bloch has noted with regard to B “a growing emphasis upon the subjectivity of personal vision” and even cites the text as that in which “the romanesque genre becomes the narrative form of subjective vision.” According to Bloch, “What one perceives and what one believes become, in Béroul’s poem, a function of who one is and what one knows.”21 Bloch bases his argument precisely on the scene of Mark’s visit to the sleeping lovers in which, he asserts, Mark “cannot escape the problem of interpretation.”22 In this scene that counterbalances Mark’s punishment of the dwarf, Mark is finally allowed to see things with his own eyes. Upon his discovery of the lovers sleeping, he misinterprets what he sees, because he believes the lovers innocent of adultery. On the other hand, however, through this “misreading”23 he is able to overcome his own embarrassment and vulnerability in order to attain the greater truth of compassion.

21. Howard Bloch, “Tristan, the Myth of the State and the Language of the Self,” Yale French Studies 51 (1974): 61–81 (quotations on 78, 81, and 77). 22. Ibid., 80. 23. Is Mark’s interpretation of the scene really a misreading? It is perhaps here, more than any other time before the end of the story, that the king “sees” a truth more profound than the simple fact of the love affair. He sees their innocence of heart, their childlike, prelapsarian oblivion (represented here by sleep). He misreads the facts but through them interprets truthfully.

248 After the Potion

Rec on ciliation Mark’s discovery of the sleeping lovers in B is followed closely by the scene in which, the love potion’s effect having come to an end, the lovers seek out the hermit Ogrin to ask him to facilitate their reconciliation with Mark. (This reconciliation constitutes the second “hinge” episode of the second half.) much is gained by considering these scenes together. They describe the “wearing off ” of an overpowering and sinful impulse: in Mark’s case, anger, and in Tristan and Iseut’s, the passion caused by the potion. When informed by the woodsman that the lovers have been found, Mark sets out intending to kill them, and yet he insists several times that he wants to go alone, as if ashamed, or perhaps desirous of avoiding outside influence. He meets the woodsman at the cross (“A la croiz vint” [v. 1957]), and is led by him to the lovers’ hut, at which point he motions him away and proceeds alone. The king raises his sword to kill the lovers but hesitates upon noticing that they are clothed, their mouths are not joined, and a sword lies between them. In an internal monologue, we see Mark slowly become conscious of the potential sinfulness of his own behavior: Corage avoie d’eus ocire: Nes tocherai, retrairai m’ire. De fole amor corage n’ont. N’en ferrai nul. Endormi sont: Se par moi eirent atouchié, Trop par feroie grant pechié (vv. 2011–16)

I was disposed to kill them: but I will not touch them, I will withdraw my anger. They are not disposed to wild love. I’ll do nothing to either one. They are sleeping: if they were touched by me, I would commit too great a sin.

Suddenly full of tenderness, he leaves signs that show his forgiveness and protection but also firmly reassert his claim to his wife. Thus, the

After the Potion  249 wearing off of the love potion and the lovers’ subsequent repentance is preceded by King Mark’s surmounting of his own anger. In this scene, he prepares the way for Iseut’s return to her rightful place. Practically speaking, it is indeed necessary that the king’s anger “wear off ” for the lovers’ passion to loosen its hold: if the potion ended while the king remained unforgiving, the story would be left in limbo.24 Hence, we see how closely connected are the sins and salvation of these three characters. Furthermore, the gestures accomplished and the signs left by Mark are clearly centered upon Iseut, prefiguring his later acceptance of the queen’s return and banishment of Tristan. Tristan’s banishment highlights by contrast the significance of Eilhart’s (and arguably Béroul’s) ending, in which Mark forgives both Iseut and Tristan and brings them back to society. The role played by Ogrin in the Morois sequence and reconciliation offers many parallels with this conclusion. In both, one man, embodying Christian love and pardon, acts as a catalyst for the lovers’ reintegration into place. In Eilhart’s text, Ugrim (Ogrin) appears for the first time immediately following King Mark’s discovery of the lovers in the forest. Tristan goes to him to receive penance, but Ugrim will absolve him only if he surrenders Iseut to Mark. Unwilling to repent, Tristan leaves. From the beginning, the romancer introduces Ugrim as Mark’s confessor, and insists: “Waß er tet úbelß / zu im er deß buß nam” (“From him he received penance for whatever evil he had done” [vv. 4706–7]). Thus, although he appears here as Tristan’s possible confessor, he is defined in relation to the king, and more specifically, to the king’s sins. Following upon the portrayal of Mark’s wrath and subsequent merciful sparing of the lovers, the appearance of Mark’s confessor suggests that his sins are also relevant here. The lovers’ sinful behavior has caused the king to commit the sin of anger; likewise, the king’s anger has maintained their isolation and need for one another. As Mark’s confessor, Ugrim realizes per24. Vinaver also notes the interconnection of the king’s visit and the potion’s end in “La Forêt de Morois,” 11.

250 After the Potion haps that returning Iseut to Mark will help all three characters to renounce their sins. Repentance is impossible before the potion wears off; once it does, Tristan unequivocally declares that he will always repent for having committed so many sins with Iseut (see vv. 4755–64). Ugrim asks if he is ready to give the queen back to her husband; he consents. The hermit rejoices and writes a letter to the king instructing him to take the queen back and forgive Tristan, invoking several times his own moral authority and the spiritual ties between himself and the king. King Mark carries out his spiritual master’s instructions, except for one: he refuses to forgive Tristan, who is then exiled. Indeed, the protagonist remains unforgiven and banished until after his death, when Mark finally repents of his own sin of anger. Ugrim’s attempt at mediation is, in this sense, not wholly successful, and the blame for this failure rests upon the king. Mark’s repentance in Eilhart’s conclusion finalizes Ugrim’s intervention. Although B and E give Ogrin / Ugrim the same basic function of effecting the lovers’ reconciliation with Mark, B develops the hermit character more fully. Whereas Ugrim’s two appearances are evoked in sequence following upon Mark’s discovery of the lovers in the forest, Béroul has Ogrin frame the Morois sequence, emerging just after the flight into the forest (at the beginning of the second spatial phase) and just before the return to society (at the beginning of the second hinge episode). In this way, the element of Christian values, and more specifically caritas, personified by Ogrin, spans the passage, creating the sense that with the spatial progression depicted in these scenes (a movement from exile to reintegration of place) corresponds a spiritual development on the part of its characters. While in E, Tristan visits Ugrim alone with the purpose of receiving forgiveness, in B Tristan and Iseut together chance upon Ogrin’s hermitage. No mention is made of any connection between Mark and Ogrin. The hermit recognizes and calls to Tristan, first informing him that there is a price upon his head, and then remind-

After the Potion  251 ing him gently that God forgives the repentant sinner. Ogrin contrasts the bounty placed on Tristan’s head by the angry king with God’s mercy towards the sinner: “Par foi! Tristran, qui se repent / Deu du pechié li fait pardon” (“On my faith, Tristan, to whomever repents, God grants pardon for his sin” [vv. 1378–79]). While Eilhart summarized this first visit in a few brief sentences, Béroul describes a dialogue in which Tristan and Iseut explain how the potion caused them to fall in love, and Ogrin elaborates a doctrine of penance.25 He insists that they must part, but Tristan explains that he would rather be with Iseut than possess all the riches of the world, while Iseut says that they only love each other because of the potion.26 Ogrin’s only response to their intransigence is to pray that God grant them sincere repentance. He breaks his rule and allows them to stay for the night. Indeed, B’s Ogrin is considerably milder than E’s. Rather than portraying the inflexibility of God’s moral law through Ogrin, B makes him a model of humility. Ogrin realizes that the situation surpasses his understanding and leaves judgment to God, choosing instead the moral imperative to love the sinner. His last words to them in this first encounter reveal the only answer he can reach: “Diva! cil Dex qui fist le mont, / Il vos donst voire repentance!” (“Take heart! May that God who made the world give you true repentance!” [vv. 1418–19]). For Ogrin, only God, who 25. Vinaver calls this dialogue “un texte à plusieurs voix qui évoluent simultanément” (“a text with several voices that evolve simultaneously”), noting “ils ne s’écoutent pas, ne s’entendent pas” (“they don’t listen to or hear one another” [ibid., 6]). 26. The individual declarations of Tristan and Iseut concerning the love potion reveal a discrepancy between their feelings. While Tristan emphasizes the wonder and strength of their love (“J’am Iseut a mervelle ..... Mex aim o li estre mendis / Et vivre d’erbes et de glan / Q’avoir le reigne au roi Otran” [“I love Iseut of a marvelous love ..... I’d rather be a beggar with her, and live from plants and seeds, than have king Otran’s kingdom,” B, vv. 1401, 1404–6]), Iseut considers its burden and consequences (“Il ne m’aime pas, ne je lui,/ Fors par un herbé dont je bui/ Et il en but: ce fu pechiez./ Por ce nos a li rois chaciez” [“He doesn’t love me, nor I him, except through a plant potion I drank, and he drank too: it was a tragedy. That is why the king banished us,” B, vv. 1413–16]). Iseut’s declaration that they do not love each other except for the potion (fors literally means “outside of ”) is particularly striking: the erbes Tristan says he could live on become for her the sinful herbé of the potion. Decidedly, the life of exile weighs more heavily on the queen than on Tristan.

252 After the Potion created the world and therefore the story of Tristan and Iseut, can perceive its meaning fully and stand in judgment of their sin.27 After listening to the lovers’ story, Ogrin confronts the tale with scripture (“Li hermites sovent lor dit / Les profecies de l’escrit” [vv. 1395–96]), as if trying to understand it through an authoritative frame of reference. And yet, this unchanging “escrit” does not reassure him, and he is not convinced that he has the answer. Similar to the struggle for understanding that Bloch has pointed out with regard to Mark, Ogrin too is troubled as he attempts to interpret what he has heard and read. Furthermore, B’s encounters with Ogrin take the form of a dialogued confrontation of stories and writings. In the first, Ogrin cites scripture while Tristan and Iseut each give their (quite divergent) versions of their story; in the second, we have the story of the end of the potion and the letter written by Ogrin to Mark. This dialogued juxtaposition of varying points of view, in which neither wins out, appears as a microcosm of the romance genre.28 In this way, B’s Ogrin episode echoes metatextually the poetic processes of the romance itself. After Mark’s discovery of the lovers in the Morois and “misreading” of the signs they had left, they in turn misread his signs and flee to Wales before returning to Ogrin when the potion wears off. In this sense, Ogrin’s hermitage is once again the intermediate point between an exile even more distant than the Morois—Wales—and home. It is as if the return to society can only take place through Ogrin: the textual figure of the holy man, the good reader, and the mediating writer. Indeed, Ogrin is a key figure of mediation: between God and the lovers, between Cornwall and the Morois forest, between Wales and the Cornwall court, between Mark and the lovers, between society and exile.29 27. On repentance in Béroul, see Jean-Charles Payen, Le Motif du repentir dans la littérature française médiévale (des origines à 1230) (Geneva: Droz, 1967): 335–54. 28. Bloch notes something similar with regard to B (“Tristan, the Myth of the State,” 81). 29. It is important to remember that Ogrin too lives apart from society. He repre-

After the Potion  253 Tristan and Iseut, having recovered free will, make their way together to the hermitage, thus beginning the process of repentance. When they arrive, they find Ogrin reading. Ogrin’s activity at this time is significant: not only does it mark him as a clerkly figure, but it alludes perhaps to the hermit’s continued attempt to “read” Tristan and Iseut’s story, while reflecting our own act of reading in a sort of mise en abyme. In her commentary on Ogrin’s clerkly role in Béroul, Michelle Freeman argues that Ogrin illustrates the crucial importance of critical and creative reading.30 Like Ogrin, the reader participates in elaborating the sen of the story, perceiving the associations between its elements and according them in a meaningful conjointure that is, somehow, greater than the sum of its parts.31 With the insight of a true reader, Ogrin discerns the interconnectedness of the stories of King Mark and the lovers and understands that only in their conjoining can meaning be found.32 Once again, it is he who calls out gently to the lovers: “Qant il les vit, bel les apele” (v. 2293). As I have noted, the lovers’ experience in the forest is a life of suffering in B, and Ogrin understands that only repentance can bring an end to this “grant paine” (v. 2295). Ogrin speaks to them of God’s great mercy and suggests how to remedy the situation by lying just a little (“un poi par bel mentir” [v. 2354]). The notions of truth and lie are supple ones for Ogrin. In this case, to tell sents the positive face of exile, distinct from, but not necessarily opposed to, the banishment-exile experienced by the lovers and later by Tristan alone. Though a hermit, he finds great happiness in restoring Iseut to her rightful place in the world. Interestingly, while Eilhart portrays Ugrim as instructing Mark to take Tristan back, Béroul has Ogrin suggest that Tristan leave the country upon Iseut’s restitution. Perhaps Ogrin understands that Tristan can no longer belong in Cornwall and must therefore seek another place for himself. 30. Michelle A. Freeman, The Poetics of Translatio Studii and Conjointure: Chrétien de Troyes’s Cligès, French Forum Monographs 12 (Lexington, Ky.: French Forum, 1979), 104–12. 31. Ibid., 65–71. 32. Along similar lines, in his study of Ogrin’s letter, Brent Pitts notes that the hermit, as “the poet in the text, ..... effects the conjoining of the two ‘halves’ of Béroul’s Tristan” in a manner that recalls Chrétien de Troyes’s molt bele conjointure. “Writing and Remembering in Béroul’s Roman de Tristan: The Role of Ogrin in the Second Hermit Episode,” Tristania 13 (1987–88), 1–18, quotation on 9.

254 After the Potion the truth (that Tristan and the queen have had an affair) would not serve a good purpose: it would only maintain the current state of political and moral disorder. To tell a lie will serve the higher truth of reestablishing the rightful order of things, while putting an end to the sins shared by the lovers and King Mark. Ogrin then “retells” the story of the preceding events, underlining God’s intervention in saving Tristan from the saut-de-la-chapelle. With Tristan’s guidance, he writes it all down in a letter: “Ogrins l’ermite lieve sus, / Pene et enque et parchemin prist, / Totes ces paroles i mist” (“The hermit Ogrin stands up, takes a pen and ink and parchment, all these words put down there” [vv. 2428–30]). Ogrin’s retelling of the story is thus raised to the level of the written text, a text meant to have moral and practical effectiveness in its presentation of a truth that goes beyond the simple facts. By using the potentially ambiguous phrase, “Totes ces paroles i mist,” Béroul suggests a rapprochement of Ogrin’s text with his own, indicating that he too has listened, reflected, and written down the story in service of a higher truth. Indeed, the naïve, “common” veneer of Béroul’s poem covers a sophisticated writerly project. This sophistication finds an echo in the exquisite clothes that Ogrin buys to dress the queen for her return. In a difference emblematic of the diverging “Ogrin” episodes, E only shows Ugrim giving Tristan his own sackcloth to wear for this same occasion. When Tristan is banished and the queen received back at court with great honors, it is King Mark whose happiness is served by Ogrin’s mediation. Ogrin and Mark, as writer and reader of the “text” of Ogrin’s letter, mirror the roles of poet and audience. The letter addresses Mark both in his political position as king and as an individual man. The fact that it is read to Mark by a scribe reflects the letter’s political and social function: the king’s knowledge is still mediated by others, and his actions must serve the social good. But in keeping with B’s growing emphasis, noted by Bloch, on individual conscience, the letter also represents an attempt to reach Mark as

After the Potion  255 an individual and to heal not only the lovers’ suffering but his own.33 While the letter achieves its political purpose by restoring the king’s marriage, it does not give him the information needed to reach the truth, and Mark’s individual struggle to interpret the story continues. Ogrin’s “little lie” may well have served the social good by reinstating political order. In the end, however, it is difficult to imagine that Mark could find an interpretation satisfying to his individual conscience while basing his search for it on a lie, no matter how small. Perhaps one can only achieve good interpretation when one has access to the truth, as Mark finally does in E’s conclusion. In this way, then, the parallel developments undergone by the lovers and King Mark during this time culminate in reconciliation, not only in the common tradition of B and E, but in the courtly tradition as well. In G (and presumably T), the reconciliation is initiated by Mark, who happens upon the lovers sleeping in their cave. The sword lying between them convinces him of their innocence. Because the potion does not lose its effectiveness in the courtly tradition, it is less apparent why the lovers agree to end their idyllic stay in the Cave of Lovers. They narrator simply writes that they are glad to resume their place in society: die fröude hetens aber dô vil harter unde mêre durch got und durch ir êre dan durch iht anders, daz ie wart. si kêrten wider ûf ir vart án ir hêrschaft als ê (vv. 17700–17705) 33. The reading of Ogrin’s letter to the king by a scribe echoes the reading of St. Alexis’s letter to the two emperors of Rome by a scribe. In both works, we have a holy man who has lived withdrawn from the world intervening, through writing, to tell a story to men who embody secular power. Writing is meant to reestablish the right order of things, for the good of a world from which the writer himself stands apart. In Alexis, the truth revealed by the letter leads to a people’s salvation; in Béroul’s Tristan, it saves Cornwall from political and moral chaos and sets in motion Mark’s eventual salvatory understanding and forgiveness.

256 After the Potion They were happy far more for the sake of God and their place in society than for any other reason. They returned by the way they had come to the splendour that had been theirs. (p. 274)

Initially, Mark allows Tristan to return along with Iseut but soon banishes him when the lovers are once more discovered together. The reconciliation sequence, a “hinge” episode, effects the legend’s transition to the third and final spatial framework of the second half, in which the lovers lead separate lives, Iseut with Mark in Cornwall, and Tristan wandering throughout different countries. By restoring Iseut to her husband, the lovers choose this final stage of separation. While Gottfried does not recount the details of Iseut’s return (revealing perhaps the otherwise loquacious poet’s discomfort with the idea of restitution, which appears counterintuitive in his narrative), the whole episode is told by Béroul with considerable pomp. For the restitution ceremony, the hermit Ogrin purchases splendid new clothing for the queen, and the king comes to meet her with his entire court. Tristan, however, is sent away for a year by the king and lives temporarily in hiding nearby. During the time that they spend in the forest/cave, the imbalance between Tristan and Iseut with respect to the strength of their bonds to place is erased. Before that, Iseut’s connection to her place was more firmly established than was Tristan’s. As the daughter of a king, she was brought up to be a queen and seems to care for the role, despite her love for Tristan. Nonetheless, the love potion removed the free will that, within the Christian perspective, is God’s will for humanity. This explains why the scene of Iseut’s restitution is so critical for Béroul. Iseut’s restitution signals that the basic Christian premise of human dignity—free will—has been restored to them. This restoration of free will represents, for Béroul, a great cause for celebration. Almost immediately, however, the lovers’ decision to return to their former lives affects each of them in different ways. While Iseut resumes her role as queen, Tristan begins a nomadic existence,

After the Potion  257 seemingly unable to attach himself to any particular place. Early in the story, Tristan chose to give up his own fiefdom for the sake of his uncle Mark. Even more than Iseut (whose strong familial connections are manifest in the aid brought to her by her kinsman, King Arthur, in the “Escondit” episode), Tristan has no place but Cornwall. When Mark sends him away after the restitution of Iseut, his life of wandering exile begins.

Separate Spa ce s, Separate Live s Although the Morois / Cave of Lovers episode is among the bestknown scenes of the legend and represents one of its distinct spatial “frames,” it is nonetheless a rather brief episode in both the common and courtly traditions. As frequently occurs in stories, the spatial and emotional immobility that dominates the lovers’ shared life of exile translates to a narrative immobility: their unchanging situation means there is little to tell. On the other hand, the third and final spatial phase of Tristan and Iseut’s story is quite long. From the moment the lovers leave their shared exile until their death, they lead separate lives. Iseut remains with her husband as queen of Cornwall, and Tristan travels throughout Brittany, England, and even as far as Spain (see T, v. 941). However adept the lovers may become at stealing moments together, essentially, this phase of the story revolves around their separateness. Far more than their uncomplicated togetherness in Morois, their struggle to surmount the spatial and emotional distance between them engenders numerous stories and variations in the poetic tradition. In many ways, this final phase of their relationship is the cruelest part of the legend. Banished from all previous forms of belonging, Tristan seems to lose his bearings. It is no coincidence that the two Folies Tristan poems are set during this period: the hero’s constant disguises and identity shifting reflect his increasingly tenuous hold on reality. He does indeed appear at times close to insanity. The val-

258 After the Potion ues that formerly governed his life—his belonging with Mark and his passion for Iseut—are so undermined that he decides to marry Iseut aux Blanches Mains, thereby drawing another person into his misery. It is during this time that the utter joylessness of the lovers’ existence becomes glaringly evident. The connection between love and death—l’amur and la mort— is of course paradigmatic to the legend. The phonetic resemblance of these words is also related by Thomas to l’amer / la mer at the moment when the lovers drink the potion (cf. vv. 39–71 of the Carlisle fragment). We see in this constellation of words not only their power to create reality (would the love-death connection have existed without the resemblance of l’amur and la mort?), but the intimate ties between feelings and the place in which they occur (l’amur, l’amer, la mer). When Tristan declares, “El beivre fud la nostre mort” (“The potion was our death” [T, v. 2649]), he is literally dying because of the spatial separation between Iseut and himself. The potion’s power of death lies, in part, in its power to endow all separation with the pain of exile. In Béroul’s poem, the first place Tristan stays after returning Iseut to Mark is the underground cellar of Orri the forester (vv. 3011–27). Thomas also depicts Tristan inhabiting a similarly dark and hidden space: after being rebuffed by Brangien during an attempt to approach Iseut, the hero takes refuge under the stairway in a dilapidated building. “Un vel palés ot en la curt, / Dechaet ert e depecez: / Suz le degré est dunc mucez” (“There was an old building in the courtyard, falling apart and in pieces: under the staircase he hid” [vv. 2022–24]).34 Another episode recounts how Tristan creates for himself a salle aux images, or a room that he covers with images of Iseut, and spends his days conversing with these images (T). The salle aux images is also located in an isolated place.35 From the 34. The hiding place under the staircase presents a distinct reminder of Saint Alexis. By establishing a link between Tristan and the saint of Rome, Thomas stresses the hero’s extreme isolation and deprivation, making him, as many have noted, a “secular saint.” 35. For an analysis of this episode based on neo-Platonic image theory, see Tracy

After the Potion  259 moment he leaves Tintagel, Tristan lives a clandestine existence: when he returns to Cornwall, he must hide his identity lest he be recognized; when he is elsewhere, he seeks secluded spaces in which to give free expression to his secret love for Iseut. There is no place where he can live without hiding a part of himself. In this last phase of the legend, Tristan’s numerous disguises stand as an external sign of his alienation and marginalization. From the moment he lands in Ireland after killing Morholt early in his story, Tristan shows a great talent for disguise and, as I have argued in chapter 3, this suggests his lack of core identity. However, the type of disguise chosen by the protagonist changes over time. Before drinking the love potion, his disguises were those of minstrel and merchant—marginal figures in the idealized view of medieval society as three orders, to be sure, but still recognized members of society. After his exile from Cornwall, however, Tristan takes on most often the identity of leper or fou—societal outcasts of the first order—and does so convincingly. Tristan’s disguises thus convey the growing placelessness, both external and internal, of his existence. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the two Folie Tristan poems. Both poems open with the idea of Tristan’s estrangement from his uncle’s country, suggesting the causal link between Tristan’s placelessness and his folie.36 (Marie de France’s Lai du Chèvrefeuille also begins by noting Tristan’s banishment by Mark.) The spatial separation between the hero and Cornwall has resulted in a profound sense of alienation and, in a symmetrical reaction, Tristan feigns insanity, an extreme form of alienation, in order to remedy this separation. In the Folie poems, however, his assumed identity is so convincing, and so far from others’ remembered image of him, that even Iseut cannot recognize him, and he nearly fails in his objective of being reAdams, “Archetypes and Copies in Thomas’s Tristan: A Re-examination of the Salle aux Images Scenes,” The Romanic Review 90, no. 3 (1999): 317–32. 36. For an excellent discussion of the distinction between the two poems, see Renée Curtis, “The Humble and the Cruel Tristan: A New Look at the Two Poems of the Folie Tristan,” Tristania 2, no. 1 (1976): 3–11.

260 After the Potion united with her. More than anything else, Iseut’s failure to identify Tristan reflects the changes that have taken place in the couple’s relationship. The effects of Tristan’s banishment have been debilitating. He has become so alienated and suspicious that he has in some sense lost his mind. As he says to Brangien, “Tristran oi nun, quant ça me mui” (“Tristan was my name, when I came here” [Fo, v. 624, emphasis added]). His use of the past tense attests to his disconnection from the person he was when he first came to Cornwall.

Iseut aux Blanches Mains An important and consistent feature of the final phase of the legend is Tristan’s curious marriage to Iseut aux Blanches Mains. This “second Iseut” has not typically received much critical attention, but like King Mark, her counterpart as neglected spouse, she plays a significant role as representative of place and belonging in the legend. According to both Eilhart and Gottfried, Tristan meets Iseut aux Blanches Mains not long after his final banishment from Mark’s court. In E, she is the daughter of King Hefelin of Karahès and in G, the daughter of Duke Jovelin of Arundel; in both her brother is Kaherdin, who will become Tristan’s faithful companion in this last stage of the legend. Her land of origins in E is Karahès, which is in Brittany, but in G she hails from Arundel, a duchy located between Brittany and England and bounded by the sea (the duke’s castle in Arundel is called Karke, a name similar to the one attributed by Eilhart to the country). Hence, her homeland is closer to Tristan’s own (Parmenie and Lohnois are both in Brittany) than either Mark’s Cornwall or Iseut’s Ireland. In both E and G, Tristan arrives in her homeland looking for adventure and quickly comes to the aid of her father, whose country has been ravaged by a long dispute with his neighbors. Tristan is welcomed by Iseut’s father and brother, and he and Kaherdin become fast friends. In G, Tristan’s arrival in Arundel is immediately preceded by his first return home to Parmenie since avenging his father’s death.

After the Potion  261 After leaving Cornwall and spending six months in Germany, G’s narrator tells us that “Nu belangete in vil sêre / hin wider in die künde” (“He conceived a great longing to return to his homeland” [vv. 18608–9, p. 286]). He hopes to confide his troubles in Rual but arrives only to learn that his adoptive parents are both dead. Rual’s sons greet him warmly and beg him to stay with them, saying, “Nu lâzet iuch hie wider nider / und habet iu daz allez wider, / daz iuwer und unser solte wesen” (“Settle down here and take back all that was yours and ours” [vv. 18637–39, p. 286]). But Tristan, hearing of the troubles in Arundel, decides to leave: “Er gedâhte sîner swære / aber ein teil vergezzen dâ” (“It occurred to him that he could again forget some part of his sorrows there” [vv. 18722–23, p. 287]). Not long after, he will marry Iseut aux Blanches Mains with this same purpose in mind—to forget his sorrows. In this way, Gottfried positions Tristan’s arrival in Arundel immediately after the second renunciation of his homeland. As Tristan found a new home with Mark after renouncing Parmenie the first time, he seeks a new belonging in Arundel after his second departure. Soon after arriving, he defeats the enemies of Iseut’s father and is much acclaimed in Arundel. He then meets Kaherdin’s sister, Iseut, described by Gottfried as “die bluome von den landen, / diu was stolz unde wîse” (“The paragon of that region, [she] was noble and intelligent” [vv. 18962–63, p. 290]). Across versions, the poets make much of the significance of Iseut’s name in attracting Tristan to her. In E, before even seeing her, Tristan says to himself, “Ysalden hon ich verlorn, / Ysalden hab ich wider funden” (“Iseut I have lost, Iseut I have found” [vv. 5690–91]). Tristan scholars have followed suit, duly echoing the poets in their explanations of Tristan’s decision to marry. To my knowledge, however, none have taken notice of the resemblance between the name of Tristan’s wife and that of his mother, Blanchefleur.37 Could it be 37. The similarity of the names of three women—Iseut, her mother Queen Iseut, and Iseut aux Blanches Mains—has of course been noted, notably by Gerard Brault (in “The Three Isolts in the Tristan Poems,” Romania 115 [1997]: 22–49.). Brault points out that the

262 After the Potion that Tristan also marries the second Iseut because she carries a semantic reminder of his mother? Are mother and wife linked by the purity, or whiteness, indicated by their names, in contrast to the impure Iseut? (From this perspective, Tristan’s difficulty in consummating the marriage takes on a new interpretation: perhaps his wife, like a mother, must remain undefiled in the protagonist’s mind.) Moreover, the “Oedipal” insinuations implied by the similarity of the two women’s names are reinforced by the relationship of loyalty that binds their respective husbands—Rivalin and Tristan—to their brothers (often paternal figures in medieval romance), Mark and Kaherdin. At first, the sight of Iseut renews Tristan’s sorrow, because her beauty and name remind him of Iseut la Blonde. Still, before long, Tristan finds pleasure in her presence from the very sound of her name, and soon formulates the idea that through her, he might forget his sorrow over Iseut la Blonde’s absence. He “forces his feelings to love her”: er besazte sîne trahte, er wolte liebe und lieben wân wider die maget Îsôte hân, sîn gemüete gerne twingen ze ir liebe ûf den gedingen, ob ime sîn senebürde mit ir iht ringer würde (G, vv. 19060–66)

He bent his thoughts to entertaining fond hopes and affection for the maiden Isolde, and to forcing his feelings to love her, in the speculation that, through her, the load of his longing might dwindle. (p. 291)

It is clear that Tristan takes an active part in encouraging Iseut’s love for him. Gottfried portrays him regaling her with tender looks “white hands” motif was a literary commonplace connoting ideal beauty, integrity, and innocence (45–46).

After the Potion  263 and giving much thought to seeing her at all times of the day. She in turn grows fond of him, initially falling in love through the words of others (a trait she shares with Blanchefleur, Tristan’s mother): sît sî gehôrte unde gesach, daz man im sô vil lobes sprach über hof und über lant, sît was ir herze an in gewant (vv. 19075–78)

Ever since she had seen and heard people speak of him so highly everywhere, her heart had been turned towards him. (p. 292)

Kaherdin, who wants to keep Tristan in Arundel with him, encourages their affection, and soon, the two appear to be genuinely in love. er hôrte und sach Îsolde vil gerner danne er wolde. reht alse tete ouch in Îsolt: si sach in gerne und was im holt. er meinde sî, si meinde in: hie mit gelobetens under in liebe unde geselleschaft38 (vv. 19119–25)

He heard and saw Isolde far more gladly than he wished. And so it was with Isolde. She was glad to see him and harboured friendly feelings towards him. She was in his thoughts, as he was in hers. They now swore companionship and affection. (p. 292)

Eilhart dwells less on the couple’s individual feelings, but also indicates Tristan’s perfect willingness to marry the second Iseut. Af38. Hatto chooses “affection” to translate “liebe,” which is less hesitantly rendered as “love.” The translator’s decision to attenuate the feelings of Tristan and his future spouse reflects a general discomfort surrounding the episode: Thomas explicitly states that Tristan behaves here in an uncourtly fashion (“Se de fin amur l’amast / L’altre Ysolt nen esspusast” [vv. 535–36]), and it is precisely here that Gottfried’s long poem comes to an abrupt end.

264 After the Potion ter their victory over King Hefelin’s enemies, Kaherdin, wanting to keep Tristan near him, suggests that he ask for his sister’s hand in marriage as recompense for his services. His immediate response: “Daß tett ich gern” (“I would do it willingly” [v. 6120]). The marriage is performed without further ado. What motivates Tristan to “force his feelings to love” the second Iseut? Thomas portrays his decision to go through with the marriage as a search for reciprocity: he wants to forget Iseut la Blonde as she has presumably forgotten him, by seeking carnal pleasures with a spouse. Tristan reflects: Jo voil espuser la meschine Pur saveir l’estre a la reïne Si l’esspusaille e l’assembler Me pureient li faire oblïer, Si cum ele pur sun seignur Ad entroblïé nostre amur (vv. 379–84)

I want to marry the young girl to know the queen’s being, if marriage and its union could make me forget her, as she has forgotten our love because of her lord.

This idea is repeated a few lines later: “Assaier le volt endreit sei, / Cum Ysolt fait emvers lu rei” (“He wants to experience himself what Iseut does with the king” [vv. 415–16]). While Thomas thus relentlessly exposes Tristan’s conscious and egocentric decision to use Iseut aux Blanches Mains for his own ends, the other poets hesitate to attribute to their hero such willfully self-centered behavior. Eilhart neglects to discuss Tristan’s motivations. Gottfried, to be sure, underlines Tristan’s duplicity, asserting that he betrays and lies to the new Iseut (“si was betrogen” [v. 19401], “het ir sô vil gelogen” [v. 19402], “trügeheite” [v. 19407]). He even hints that Tristan might desire that Iseut la Blonde reciprocate his suffering: “Nu bin ich trûric, ir sît frô” (“Now I am wretched, but you are happy” [v. 19488, p. 297]). Still, he does not adopt the

After the Potion  265 implacably solipsistic decision-making process described by Thomas: the hero simply yearns to put an end to his suffering and to find once again “ein triurelôser Tristan” (“a carefree Tristan” [v. 19468, p. 296]). In the last verses of his romance, Gottfried puts his finger on the placelessness and resulting lack of firm identity at the heart of Tristan’s character: ich bin doch nû vil lange ergeben als ungewissen winden, wie kunde man mich vinden? ine kan ez niht erdenken wie: man suoche dâ, sô bin ich hie; man suoche hie, sô bin ich dâ: wie vindet man mich oder wâ? wâ man mich vinde? dâ ich bin: diu lant enloufent niender hin; sô bin ich in den landen, dâ vinde man Tristanden (vv. 19516–26)

I have been at the mercy of such very uncertain winds now for a very long time—how could anyone find me? I cannot fathom how. If a man sought there I would be here, if he sought here I would be there. How or where shall one find me? Where am I to be found? Here, where I am—countries do not run away from one, and I am in those countries— so let Tristan be found there! (p. 297, emphasis added)

In this extraordinary passage, Gottfried goes a step further than Thomas by implying that, fundamentally, what Tristan seeks in Iseut aux Blanches Mains is a place. Coming on the heels of his banishment from Cornwall and brief visit to the homeland he no longer sees as his own, the welcome Tristan receives from Kaherdin and his family promises to fill a void in his life.39 Indeed, Kaherdin plays an instrumental role in encour39. Along these lines, Danielle Buschinger notes that Tristan’s marriage has a “double function of retaining the hero at court and of reintegrating him, the exile, the loner with neither attachments nor homeland, into a social framework.” “Tristan et Iseut aux

266 After the Potion aging the marriage between his newfound companion and his sister. Thus, Iseut aux Blanches Mains represents not only a means for Tristan to forget Iseut la Blonde and to find a place for himself, but also a means for Kaherdin to keep Tristan near him. She is at the intersection of two men’s desires, both of which are centered on giving Tristan a place. Her beauty and her name are in this sense less important than we might think, despite the fact that Tristan sees the combination of these two traits as his reason for marrying her (“Ces dous choses qu’en li sunt / Ceste faisance emprandre font, / Qu’il volt espuser la meschine” [T, vv. 409–11]). Above all, perhaps, Tristan hopes to find a place of belonging with the new Iseut: their mutual affection, sanctioned by marriage, would give him at last a solid social identity and a safe home. Iseut aux Blanches Mains’ own feelings about her union with Tristan are never expressed through internal monologues or direct discourse, but rather through physical actions. Encouraged by Tristan’s attentions, she believes that his songs about Iseut are in fact about her and responds willingly to his apparent advances. While he thinks about Iseut, she loves him alone: Tristan der wolte zeiner nôt ein ander Îsolde, und Îsôt diu enwolde keinen anderen Tristanden, diu mit den wîzen handen; si minnete unde meinde in (G, vv. 19310–15).

For his sole source of suffering Tristan desired another Isolde, but Isolde desired no other Tristan—she of the White Hands loved and had her thoughts on him alone. (pp. 294–95) Blanches Mains dans la tradition de Tristan en France et en Allemagne au Moyen Âge,” in Actes du XIVe Congrès international arthurien, ed. Charles Foulon et al. (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes 2, 1984), 1:142–57, (quotation on 143). See also Neil Thomas, “Duplicity and Duplexity: The Isolde of the White Hands Sequence,” in A Companion to Gottfried von Strassburg’s Tristan (Rochester, N.Y.: Camden House, 2003), 183–201.

After the Potion  267 On their wedding night, she expresses her desire for him physically, as he debates in a long and cerebral internal monologue whether he should consummate their marriage: Tristran colche, Ysolt l’embrace, Baise lui la buche e la face, A li l’estraint, del cuer susspire, E volt iço qu’il ne desire (T, vv. 795–98).

Tristan lies down, Iseut embraces him, kisses his mouth and face, holds him to her, sighs from the heart, and desires that which he does not.

From this point on, Iseut’s unrequited sexual desire for Tristan becomes a trait that defines her. Her simply expressed ardor stands in contrast with her husband’s extremely convoluted hesitation. Only after binding Iseut to himself does Tristan fail to carry his project of belonging to completion, leaving her, in a scenario typical of the lovers’ treatment of others, caught in a charade of a marriage and ignorant of the forces now controlling her life. Iseut graciously accepts Tristan’s false explanation for his abstention on their wedding night, but the “bold water” episode serves as a reminder of the deprivation to which she has been subjected.40 For her, the internal meaning (love) and external expression (sexual fulfillment) of marriage, once in harmony, have been disassociated: 40. Scholars seem uncertain what to make of this episode. For Jonin, it reveals “the strength of Iseut aux Blanches Mains’ sensual life and the merit of her efforts to contain it” (Les Personnages féminins, 286); for Brault “a wholesome attitude toward sex” (Gerard Brault, “ ‘Entre ces quatre ot estrange amor’: Thomas’ Analysis of the Tangled Relationships of Mark, Isolt, Tristan, and Isolt of the White Hands,” Romania 114 [1996]: 70– 95, quotation on 88); for Helaine Newstead, the remnant of a folkloric motif (“Isolt of the White Hands and Tristan’s Marriage,” Romance Philology 19 [1965]: 155–66). On the whole, I agree with Jonin: the scene calls our attention both to the sensual deprivation Iseut is experiencing and to her discretion. I would add that this discretion is primarily an expression of her loyalty toward her husband. Furthermore, the dissociation of love and sexuality for Iseut aux Blanches Mains carries, in a manner strangely analogous to the experience of Alexis’s bride, certain Catharistic overtones.

268 After the Potion she believed that marriage meant both love and sexual fulfillment, but she has the former without the latter. The signs Tristan gives her of his exclusive love for her—his vows and wedding band—turn out to mean something quite different from what she expected. In this sense, her final deception of Tristan—calling the sail black when it is white—reciprocates the inversion of signs he has practiced on her. In Tristan’s double love triangle, Iseut serves both as a replacement for Iseut la Blonde and as a counterpart to Mark. In her unrequited sexuality, however, she distinguishes herself from both characters. Iseut la Blonde has two men as lovers, while she has none; Mark makes love to the woman he loves but is not loved in return. Iseut aux Blanches Mains, like Mark, both loves and desires her spouse and is blind to the reasons for her disappointment: L’acoler et le baisser De lui vousist plus asaier: Il ne li puet abandoner, Ne ele ne le volt pas demander (vv. 1234–37)

Of his embraces and kisses she would like to have more experience; he cannot allow this to her, nor does she want to ask for it.

Like Saint Alexis’s wife, she does not get what she bargained for in marriage yet still remains loyal to her husband despite her unfulfilled expectations. This loyalty is all the more remarkable in light of the fact that Tristan never shares his thoughts with her or involves her in his project as Alexis does with his wife. Iseut stays with Tristan quite simply because she loves him. During the last stage of the legend, Iseut aux Blanches Mains is the person to whom Tristan returns after his sundry voyages. It is easy to miss this fact, so seldom is it highlighted by the poets, but it is in fact a latent constant: after one of the lovers’ brief reunions, Thomas specifies that Tristan “passe mer al primer vent; / E vent a Ysolt de Bretaingne / Que dolente est de cest ovraingne” (“crosses the sea at first wind, and comes to Iseut of Brittany, who is an-

After the Potion  269 guished by this undertaking” [vv. 2154–56]). She is also mentioned by the poet of Fb as the Iseut that Tristan has: “Ysiaut a il, mais nen a mie / Celi qui primes fu s’amie” (“Iseut he has, but not the one who first was his beloved” [vv. 49–50]). She and Kaherdin give Tristan a home when they could easily have banished him for failing to consummate his marriage. Her silent, and largely unnoticed, presence traverses this last stage of the legend. She acts as the stable anchor for a Tristan who is constantly leaving but who always comes home to her. Her importance for Tristan is confirmed by the crucial role she plays in his death.

The Lovers’ Death The death scene—the legend’s final hinge episode—brings an end to the spatial separation endured by the lovers. It acts as a hinge not between two portions of narrative but between the narrative and its own life as poem. As we have seen, the final phase of the legend, which describes the lovers’ struggle to sustain their attachment despite the disjunction of their daily lives, appears paradigmatic of the legend as a whole in that most short poems purporting to recount the legend situate their tale here (for example, Fo, Fb, Ch). This shows that, at its core, Tristan speaks to the lovers’ perpetual separateness and the passion that endures in spite, or perhaps because, of it. The lovers’ death scene reveals that space (especially the placeless space represented by the sea), with its power to separate, plays a crucial role in causing the death so strongly associated with their love and their story. In this section, I will study the lovers’ death from the perspectives of the four characters involved: first, Tristan and Iseut themselves, then Iseut aux Blanches Mains, and finally, King Mark.

The Lovers In imploring Iseut to come to him, as he has done so many times for her, Tristan seeks to remind her of how his love for her caused him to lose his place and his belonging:

270 After the Potion De mé dolurs li deit membrer Que suffert ai pur li amer. Perdu en ai tuz mez parenz, Mun uncle le rei e ses gens. Vilment ai esté congeiez, En altres terres eseilleiez. (T, vv. 2653–58)

She must remember the torments I have suffered in order to love her. For my love, I have lost all my family, my uncle the king and his people. Dishonorably I was sent away, exiled in other lands.

Now it is she who must overcome the spatial divide, thus risking her belonging as he did his. She does not hesitate, but sneaks out of the castle in the middle of the night with Brangien. The ease with which she escapes serves as a reminder that, fundamentally, Iseut has chosen life with Mark as queen of Cornwall. The nearness of death shifts her priorities to her love for Tristan: with death comes love, with love comes death. When her ship is caught in a storm, she agonizes over the thought that if she were to drown, Tristan would surely die also: “Mais tres que vus, amis, l’orrez, / Jo sai ben que vus en murrez” (“But as soon as you, my beloved, hear of it, I know well that you will die” [T, vv. 3064–65]). Her absolute faith in their communion presents a stark contrast with Tristan’s instant willingness to believe that Iseut has failed to come save him.41 The space of the sea, which has been so instrumental in expressing Tristan’s placelessness, becomes a powerful player in the final moments of their love. As she seeks to reach her dying lover, Iseut’s ship slows down on the sea, and the short distance between the ship and Tristan’s bed becomes a gaping abyss: 41. Iseut’s final and fatal faithfulness to her love for Tristan caused Jean Subrenat to compare her to Roland’s Aude (“Aude et Iseut devant la mort,” in Mélanges d’histoire littéraire, de linguistique et de philologie romanes offerts à Charles Rostaings [Liège: Association intercommunale de Mécanographie, 1974], pp. 1049–50). While the women’s dramatic and sudden deaths are similar, their motives and meaning are quite different: Aude expresses a faithfulness in memory to Roland and to their couple, thus integrating herself

After the Potion  271 Ysolt est mult ennuiee, La terre veit qu’ad coveitee, E si n’i pot mie avenir. A poi ne muert de sun desir. Terre desirent en la nef, Mais il lur vente trop suëf. Sovent se claime Ysolt chative. La nef desirent a la rive, Uncore ne la virent pas (vv. 3151–59, emphasis added).

Iseut is in despair: she sees the land she has so desired, and she cannot reach it. She almost dies of her desire. They desire land in the ship, but the wind is too weak. Often Iseut laments her misfortune. The ship is desired by those on shore, but they don’t see it yet.

In the end, the space between them, small as it may be, proves too large. Tristan, exiled to the very core of his being, cannot trust in Iseut’s love for him. After his banishment from his uncle’s lands and his halfhearted and failed attempt to create a new belonging through marriage, Tristan’s love for Iseut is the only place he has left. Yet at the very moment when his life depends on it, he loses his last shred of faith in this place. As we have seen, Tristan lacks a sense of belonging from the beginning. He both longs for belonging and undermines it. Iseut, on the other hand, knows how it feels to belong. Accordingly, in her final moments she comes to envision the lasting transcendence of their love. In the midst of the storm, she imagines that a fish will swallow her and her lover. A man would then find their bodies in the fish, “E fra en puis si grant honur / Cume covent a nostre amur” (“and he will do them great honor, as suits our love” [T, vv. 3087–88]). When she realizes the impossibility of this dream, she expresses the wish that Tristan should heal and live a long life after her death. In coninto his geste, while Iseut fulfills the fatalistic dictum contained in the love potion, finally giving concrete expression to the alienated, life-negating force that drives their love.

272 After the Potion trast, when Tristan believes that Iseut has failed to come to him, he is consoled by the thought that she will suffer from his death: N’avez pité de ma langur, Mais de ma mort avrez dolur. Ço m’est, amie, grant confort Que pité avrez de ma mort (vv. 3191–94)

You have no pity on my sickness, but you will have anguish from my death. It is a great comfort to me, my love, that you will have pity on my death.

Tristan’s alienation makes it impossible for him to desire Iseut’s good regardless of his own fate. In the end, place brings a capacity for faith in something beyond oneself. Because Tristan has no place, it is difficult for him to have such faith.

Iseut aux Blanches Mains When Tristan returns to his wife after one of his voyages, afflicted with a fatally poisoned wound, Eilhart portrays her as terribly distressed (see E, vv. 9235–55). She calls doctors and cares for him, to no avail. Thomas also describes how Iseut acts as Tristan’s caretaker and companion, albeit falsely, having recently learned of her husband’s love for Iseut la Blonde (see T, vv. 2776–92). Eilhart and Thomas, the two poets whose conclusions to the legend have survived, put a very different spin on Iseut’s actions in the death scene, and it is worthwhile to compare the two.42 According to Thomas, Iseut learns the truth about Tristan’s love for another woman by spying on him as he begs Kaherdin to find his beloved and bring her back to save him. When she sees the two be42. Merritt Blakeslee contends that Thomas originally included the episode of the intertwining trees in his poem (omitting, however, the context of Mark’s forgiveness). According to this theory, the episode, which was thought to be too subversive, was suppressed in the Sneyd and Douce manuscripts. “Mouvance and Revisionism in the Transmission of Thomas of Britain’s Tristan: The Episode of the Intertwining Trees,” in Arthurian Literature VI, ed. R. Barber (Cambridge and Totowa, N.J.: D. S. Brewer and Barnes and Noble, 1986), 124–56.

After the Potion  273 ginning a private conversation, she positions herself to listen, because she is afraid that Tristan might leave her: En sun quer merveille Ysolt Qu’estre puise qu’il faire volt, Se le secle vule guerpir, Muine u chanuine devenir. Mult par est en grant effrei (vv. 2525–29, emphasis added)

In her heart Iseut wonders what it can be that he wants to do, if he wants to take flight from the world, to become a monk or a canon. She is very terrified.

Thus, Thomas gives us a glimpse into Iseut’s heart—despite her disappointed expectations, she is nonetheless fearful of being abandoned by her husband who, she presumes, is a holy man longing to leave worldly values behind. She has entirely misread the signs of Tristan’s chastity. When she learns the truth from Tristan’s own mouth, she is furious. Her feelings of rage are similar to Mark’s in the “justice” episode immediately preceding the Morois forest, but she expresses them quite differently. Hiding her anger, she dotes on Tristan as she internally reflects upon her revenge. Unlike Mark, Iseut is extremely duplicitous in her revenge, according to Thomas. She feigns compassion for Tristan but De bon curage pas nel plaint, La felunie el cuer li maint Qu’ele pense faire, s’ele puet, Car ire a ço la comuet (vv. 2789–92)

She does not pity him in good faith, the treachery of what she is thinking of doing, if she can, remains in her heart, for rage moves her to it.

When she perceives Kaherdin’s ship on the horizon with the white sail raised, she returns to Tristan, “purpensé de grant engin” (“having meditated a resolution of great cunning” [v. 3167]), and tells him that “le sigle est tut neir” (“the sail is completely black” [v. 3180]).

274 After the Potion Her words of deception represent the last mention of her in Thomas’s poem.43 Eilhart’s portrayal of Iseut in the final moments of the romance is considerably more sympathetic and parallels in many ways the depiction of her counterpart, King Mark. Her grief over her husband’s wound is genuine, for she doesn’t know the truth about his love for Iseut la Blonde. To the end, the narrator is ambiguous about how much of the truth she indeed discovers. When the little girl whom Tristan has instructed to look out for the ship’s arrival begins her watch, the narrator states, “ich en waiß, wer do sagt / daß Tristrandß wib” (“I don’t know who told Tristan’s wife” [vv. 9346–47]). It is unclear whether Iseut knows the reasons behind the little girl’s watch or whether she is simply suspicious about the meaning of the sign of the white sail. Whatever the case, she orders the girl to instruct her of the sail’s color before reporting to Tristan. When Iseut announces the ship’s arrival to Tristan, he does not suspect her, despite the fact that he had instructed the little girl not to tell anyone what she was looking for on the sea. He happily asks his wife what color the sail is and, without thinking, she lies: do log sü ser, daß eß ir syd ward gar layd. an aller schlacht falschait sprach sü so tumlichen und sagt im togelichen, daß segel wär wisß nit44 (vv. 9378–83) 43. Iseut’s cruelty in this scene causes Brault to conjecture that Thomas chose her name with ironic intent: “Because of her treacherous words, informing Tristan that the sail is black ..... her hands are now dirty and her name has become a lie” (“The Three Isolts,” 49). While the black/white motif is certainly suggestive, Thomas’s relentless exposure of Tristan’s egotistic motivations for the marriage indicates that Thomas has a certain sympathy for the second Iseut. This gives the episode a greater moral complexity than previously noticed. 44. Iseut’s assertion—that the sail is “not white” (as opposed to “black” in T)—seems quite unnatural, and should also have awakened Tristan’s suspicions. Eilhart takes pains here to underline Tristan’s total, almost blind, faith in his wife.

After the Potion  275 Then she told a great lie for which she later paid dearly. Without the slightest deceit, speaking without thinking, she told him privately that the sail was not white.

Tristan dies immediately, without a word. In Eilhart’s description of events, Iseut’s final deceit is not the product of a planned revenge, but rather like an unpremeditated game she plays without realizing that the stakes are so high. The idea that she may still be unaware of the truth at the moment when she lies to Tristan is strengthened by the fact that Iseut la Blonde speaks to her when she arrives, telling her that she has loved Tristan more than his wife ever has (vv. 9427–31). Like Mark in the final scene, Iseut aux Blanches Mains is overcome with sorrow over what she has done, wailing and lamenting because “selber sü daß wol sach, / daß er von iren schulden starb” (“She herself sees full well that he is dead through her own fault” [vv. 9398–99]). In Eilhart’s poem, Iseut and Mark, the two figures of the betrayed spouse, play complementary roles in mourning the lovers’ death. Both of them learn the truth about Tristan and Iseut la Blonde through an anonymous informant. Both contribute unwittingly, as though compelled by an unconscious rage, to the demise of their beloved spouse. Finally, both experience genuine regret, sorrow, and pity at the lovers’ death, immediately responding in a way that honors the two people who so deceived them in life. When Iseut witnesses the death of Iseut la Blonde, her grief increases, and she promptly places the lovers together in a coffin: nun hört, wie eß do an fieng Tristrandß elich wib: ÿemerlich quelt iren lib und wainot bitterlich. do hiesß sü flißklich die lichnam sechen (vv. 9458–63)

276 After the Potion Listen now to what Tristan’s lawful wife did. Woefully she beat her breast, and wept bitterly. Then she had their bodies laid in coffins with much care.

Immediately afterward, Mark arrives to bring the lovers back to Cornwall. In this way, both Mark and Iseut are instrumental not only in giving the lovers their final resting place, but in acting as the first audience for their tragic tale. One of the most striking aspects of the tale of Tristan and Iseut aux Blanches Mains as told by both E and T has gone largely unnoticed by scholars. Many have rightfully remarked upon the role of Iseut’s deceit in causing the lovers’ death. Others have noted that Tristan’s death stops just short of suicide (see Kunstmann, as well as Grun).45 To my knowledge, however, none have noted how exceptional is Tristan’s complete trust in his wife. His death is premised on two things: his lack of trust in Iseut la Blonde’s desire to save him, and his absolute trust in his wife’s words. Throughout his story, Tristan stands out in his inability to trust anyone, including his beloved Iseut; indeed, his lack of faith in others and corresponding constant trickery have often ensured his survival. In E especially, we would expect Tristan to suspect wrongdoing when it is not the little girl but his wife who brings the news of the ship’s arrival, and even more so when his wife answers his question—“What color is the sail?”—by saying that it is “not white.” Yet in the end, he believes his wife, the woman whom he has continually deceived. Perhaps Tristan has internalized her silent but devoted presence more than he let on. Possibly, he dies in part because the alternative—believing that she would deceive him—is almost as unbearable as the prospect of his beloved Iseut failing him. Just perhaps, Tristan finds with his wife, after all, some form of belonging. As he asks her to tell him the color of the sail, he trusts ful45. Pierre Kunstmann, “La Mort de Tristan: suicide?” Incidences 5, no. 1 (1981): 45–51; Gunda Grun, “La Mort de Tristan: un suicide ‘passif ’?” Zeitschrift für Romanische Philologie 105 (1989): 60–62.

After the Potion  277 ly that she only wants for him what is good. At last, he is freed from the skepticism and doubts of the outsider. Tristan’s final, complete trust in Iseut aux Blanches Mains is the fullest form of belonging that he can achieve, but for him, it brings death.

King Mark At the end of E, King Mark is informed of the death of his nephew Tristan and his wife Iseut and for the first time learns of the love potion. After many years spent in consuming jealousy, alternately tracking down or ignoring the signs of their illicit love, he finally is given to understand it fully, from beginning to end. With this retrospective clarity of vision, Mark unhesitatingly accords the lovers his forgiveness, and he even regrets that they had not told him the truth of the matter while still alive so that he could have kept them both near to him. He declares several times that losing them to death is the greatest sorrow he has ever known, brings their bodies over the sea back to his country, and has them buried together with great honors. He has a rosebush planted over Iseut’s body and a grapevine over Tristan’s, and the two plants become so closely intertwined that separating them would bring death. This conclusion in which Mark, moved by loving forgiveness, reintegrates Tristan and Iseut into his kingdom and ensures the propagation of their story offers a startling contrast with Thomas’s version, which concludes on the tragic note of the lovers’ death and the author’s epilogue. In his study of Mark’s role in Eilhart’s conclusion, William C. McDonald highlights the way in which Eilhart’s successors developed and expanded this conclusion, eventually turning the story into a cautionary tale against the dangers of what the author calls “Tristan love.” In this tale, Mark is transformed into a model of holy penitence and renunciation of worldly values, in contrast with Tristan and Iseut’s weltlich lieb. McDonald asserts, “The stories [of the Eilhart literary tradition] are in monolithic agreement in pitting the consuming passion of Tristan and Isolde, a love that defies social

278 After the Potion restraints, against the higher urge to placate God, which is the task of the survivor, the king.”46 While this may be true of the later poems of Ulrich von Türheim and Heinrich von Freiberg, which purport to be continuations of G, E’s deeper meaning lies not so much in the contrast but rather the mysterious combination of the lovers’ passion and Mark’s forgiveness. As Vinaver notes, “Le drame se joue sur un autre plan que celui de leur culpabilité ou de leur innocence” (“The drama plays out a plane other than that of [the lovers’] guilt or innocence”).47 It is not unlikely that Béroul’s version described an ending similar to that of Eilhart. Schoepperle hypothesized that Béroul and Eilhart worked from the same original text, which she called estoire. Joseph Bédier, in his scholarly reconstitution of the lost—or perhaps imaginary—original text, concluded the tale in the same manner.48 Despite the likelihood that Béroul and Eilhart, working from the same source, would have given similar endings to their poems, it is impossible to know Béroul’s ending with certainty. Alison Adams and T. D. Hemming argue the theory, for example, that Béroul’s ending followed the Roman en Prose de Tristan, in which Tristan is fatally stabbed by King Mark and suffocates Iseut in a final embrace.49 In support of their theory, Adams and Hemming emphasize the differences separating Béroul and Eilhart, especially from B’s verse 2752 and E’s verse 4913. They argue that because Béroul attaches greater importance to the character of Iseut, to the characters’ motivations, and to the equality of the lovers, his ending would not have dealt so exclusively with Tristan as does Eilhart’s. Moreover, because the 46. William C. McDonald, “King Mark, the Holy Penitent. On a Neglected Motif in the Eilhart Literary Tradition,” Zeitschrift für deutsches Altertum 120 (1991): 393–418, quotation on 416. 47. Vinaver, “La Forêt de Morois,” 9. 48. J. Bédier, Le Roman de Tristan et Iseut, renouvelé par Joseph Bédier (Paris: L’Édition d’art H. Piazza, 1946). 49. Alison Adams and T. D. Hemming, “La Fin du Tristan de Béroul,” Le Moyen âge 79 (1973): 449–68. The B.N. f.fr. 103 manuscript is an exception, as it depicts the same ending as E and T.

After the Potion  279 poet shows a propensity for irony and paradox as a system of narration, he would likely have chosen an unexpected ending similar to that of the Roman en Prose. Adams and Hemming base their conclusions on an either/or argument: either Iseut disappears from the narrative’s focus and Béroul follows the endings of E and T, or she remains a central character and Béroul gives his tale a different ending, possibly similar to that of the Roman en Prose. A different combination of these variables is plausible, however: B could very well give Iseut a greater role in the narrative and still retain the verse romances’ more common ending in which Tristan eventually dies of his wound and Iseut of sorrow upon arriving too late to save him. As regards Mark in particular, Béroul interweaves his fate with that of the lovers by portraying his evolution from rage to forgiveness in the Morois/Ogrin episode. As we have seen, B emphasizes the connection between the sins and redemption of all three characters, setting up an important role for Mark in the poem’s ending. Given the strong evidence that Mark’s spiritual evolution matters to Béroul, I find more plausible an ending in which Mark plays a role similar to that of E. Such an ending would complete B’s narrative in a manner consistent with the earlier episodes and with the French romancer’s plainly Christian perspective. (As we have seen, Bloch’s reading of Béroul, which also attributes considerable significance to Mark’s internal struggle to understand and interpret the story, lends additional support to my argument).50 Within Bloch’s perspective as within mine, Mark’s interiority and spiritual evolution—highlighted so beautifully by Eilhart’s conclusion—also have crucial significance in B. Forgiveness, then, is an operative notion in both Béroul’s Morois forest / Ogrin episode and in Eilhart’s conclusion. At different times throughout the story, Mark demonstrates forgiveness, either because he wishes to remain in denial of the whole matter or because 50. Bloch, “Tristan, the Myth of the State.”

280 After the Potion he loves his wife and nephew and misses them when they are gone.51 The pardon he grants at the end of Eilhart’s story is of a wholly different nature. While virtually every piece of information reaching Mark’s ears is heavily mediated, the person who finally informs Mark of the truth concerning the love of Tristan and the queen remains anonymous, and the modalities of this momentous revelation remain undescribed. do vernam kung Marcke in kurczer zÿt daß mer, wie Tristrand tod wär und sin wib die küngin und umb ir zwaÿer minn, die se zu samen hetten so. für waur ward gesagt daß nun, eß het gemacht ain trand, daß sie aun iren danck sich minten so ser. do clagt eß eß ymmer mer, daß er eß nit wist in zÿtt, die wil sie hetten den lib. (vv. 9464–76)

A short time later, King Mark learned the story of how Tristan died, as well as his wife the queen, and about their mutual love that had bound them together. And now he was told the truth, that it was because of a drink that, against their wishes, they loved each other so much. Then he lamented ever more that he had not known this in time, while they were still in life.

For the first time, Mark understands the whole story, no longer from his own point of view, but from that of Tristan and Iseut. With 51. Sally Burch offers a contextually useful explanation of Mark’s inconsistent behavior based on canonical views of husbands with adulterous wives. “ ‘Tu consenz lor cruauté’: The Canonical Background to the Barons’ Accusation in Béroul’s Roman de Tristan,” Tristania 20 (2000): 17–30.

After the Potion  281 knowledge comes understanding, and with understanding comes forgiveness. As he brings the two bodies across the sea, Mark echoes the fatal voyage that brought his nephew and fiancée back to Cornwall before the wedding. Thus, he reconnects symbolically with both the beginning of their tale and the spatial element that played so crucial a role in his nephew’s life and psyche (the sea). He is at last in possession of the unmediated truth—represented by the anonymous messenger who accompanies him—that will allow him to reread the tale from start to finish. Finally, his various misreadings can be corrected as he begins the work of faithful interpretation to which the truth has given him access.

The Pla ce of P oetry The divergent depictions in the courtly and common traditions of both the lovers’ death and the roles of Iseut aux Blanches Mains and King Mark contribute to creating very different portrayals of place. The courtly tradition, represented by T and G, describe a gradual and linear breakdown of place and belonging from the moment the lovers drink the fatal potion. (As we saw in chapter 3, place’s precariousness in G is evident well before this moment, in Tristan’s “prehistory” and childhood.) The unending potion reflects the imperative nature of the lovers’ passion, which by definition supersedes all other values, including those of place. In the discursive logic and psychological coherence that has been so well described by Vinaver,52 Thomas recognizes the inherent placelessness of the lovers’ passion and implacably pursues it to its logical conclusion: a cruel death, without redemption. (We can assume that Gottfried, whose tale remains unfinished, would have described a similar trajectory.) Even still, although he refuses any restoration of place to 52. “Parmi les poètes qui on récrit à leur façon la légende de Tristan, il est le premier à vouloir la fonder sur ce qu’on appellera plus tard la cohérence psychologique” (“La Forêt de Morois,” 13).

282 After the Potion Tristan and Iseut either through or after death, Thomas uses his epilogue to establish the poem itself as a place of sorts, in which lovers of all kinds will find “grant confort” (v. 3295). In contrast, through the characters of Ogrin, Iseut aux Blanches Mains, and King Mark especially, the common tradition describes a gradual restoration of place from the moment the potion loses its effect. Ogrin, through his use of a written message, rescues the tale from the placeless no-man’s-land of the Morois forest and begins this work of restoration. As noted, writing and reading play a central role in B’s account of the events leading to Iseut’s restitution. To summarize: with Tristan’s help, Ogrin writes a letter to Mark, and Tristan carries it to his uncle’s court. The king then has the letter read twice by his chaplain: once to Mark and once to the barons. While Ogrin’s composition of the letter is only briefly evoked, the reading of the letter is described in detail: Primes manda le chapelain, Le brief li tent qu’a en la main. Cil fraint la cire et lut le brief ..... Les moz a tost toz conneüz, Au roi a dit le mandement. Li rois l’escoute bonement (vv. 2511–13, 2516–18)

First he sent for his chaplain, he holds out to him the letter he has in his hand. The chaplain breaks the seal and read the letter ..... he quickly deciphered the letters, to the king told the content. The king listens intently.

The process is then reversed. When Mark has made his decision, he tells his chaplain, “Soit fait cist brief o main isnele. / Oï avez que i metroiz” (“May this letter be made by hand straight away. You’ve heard what you will put in it” [vv. 2640–41]). The chaplain’s letter returns to Ogrin, who reads it to the lovers: “Li hermite la chartre a prise, / Lut les letres, vit la franchise / Du roi, qui pardonne a Yseut” (“The hermit took the document, read the letters, saw the nobility

After the Potion  283 of the king, who forgives Iseut” [vv. 2657–59]). Through the clerkly talents of Ogrin and the chaplain, order is restored in the place of Cornwall.53 While these clerks have the power to restore social order, they fall short of bringing about individual understanding and truth. Perhaps such understanding—in which the acceptance of mystery, of multiple perspectives, and of one’s own limitations plays no small part—can only be facilitated by the art of romance as practiced by the clerks’ counterpart, Béroul himself. If Ogrin serves as a reflection of the clerkly poet Béroul, then Mark acts as his counterpart, the audience/reader. (In E, and presumably B, Iseut aux Blanches Mains also fulfills this function, albeit to a lesser extent.) In E’s conclusion, Mark is the first person to know and understand the lovers’ story from beginning to end.54 The anonymous messenger completes the (perhaps necessarily) partial truth provided by Ogrin in his letter. Mark then accomplishes the function that has been his from the beginning: to give the lovers a place. In this sense, his actions as reader begin instead to parallel the work of the poet, who creates for the lovers a place in poetry. Mark puts an end to the exile of Tristan and Iseut, allowing their story to take root among human beings and grow, as do the plants above their tomb. In the end, Mark becomes an embodiment of caritas, loving his nephew and wife not for what they did or failed to do for him, but simply for having been who they were. Through Ogrin, Iseut aux Blanches Mains, and Mark, Béroul clearly highlights the complexity of both reading and telling this story. For all three, Tristan and Iseut’s story does violence to their lives and to their sense of self. The narrator writes of Ogrin: “Por eus esforça mot sa vite” (“For them he does much violence to his 53. On the clerkly narrator, see Karl D. Uitti, “The Clerkly Narrator Figure in Old French Hagiography and Romance,” Medioevo Romanzo 2 (1975): 374–408. 54. In E, we cannot ascertain with certainty exactly what Iseut aux Blanches Mains understands of the story through her witness of the lovers’ death. However much or little she comprehends, however, she begins the process of reintegrating the lovers into place by mourning their death and honoring them with a coffin.

284 After the Potion way of life” [v. 1422]). And yet, we are meant to understand that both Ogrin and the Mark of the conclusion attain a good reading of this tale—that is, one based in charity and in the humble acknowledgment of the limits of human understanding—even though the tale’s truth renders insufficient their deepest and most comforting beliefs.

Conclusions

Pla ce’s Fate Revisited : A New Interpretation As we have seen, in western thinking since Kant, human subjectivity and its categories of understanding are seen as ineluctable filters for all perception, including that of space. Epistemologically speaking, we have no guarantee that our perceptions of the world are identical with the world. This centrality of the human subject in perception has become incontrovertible in our time. Historically speaking, however, this was not always true. When we study literature of other time periods, especially those far removed from our own, we must not forget that people of other times may have understood themselves and their world very differently. Indeed, the works of eleventh- and twelfth-century France that we have studied suggest a human experience and understanding of place that diverge significantly from our own. In order to better grasp this difference, I would like to return briefly to the conceptualization of space and place by recent thinkers and make a few observations. Most of the scholars of place studies that we have examined posit a fundamental difference between the past and the present in terms of the human experience of place. They point to moments of rupture when, ac-

285

286 Conclusions cording to them, the human relationship to space underwent radical change. Interestingly, when we examine closely the core of their arguments, we realize that their respective views on this rupture are incompatible. According to Edward Casey, place was given primary importance in antiquity. Even though important studies of geometrical space existed (such as Euclid’s Geometry), space was widely conceptualized in relationship to human perception and the finite world. The rise of the Christian belief that Christianity’s message pertained equally to all peoples and places gradually led to the dominance of a more universal outlook. Accordingly, space came to be regarded as universally homogeneous. The qualitatively varied, earthbound, human-related conception of space—in other words place—was disregarded.1 The nadir of place coincided with Newton’s concept of absolute space. Beginning with Kant, however, and continuing with the phenomenologists, the centrality of human perception brought place back into philosophical consideration where it now thrives. On the other hand, Tuan and Relph appear to share the opinion that the end of the Middle Ages saw a fundamental change in the human experience of place.2 Around this time, Ptolemy’s maps were rediscovered, the “New World” was discovered, and the heliocentric system of Copernicus was elaborated. These and many other developments helped to propagate a more scientific view of space. Before then, as Tuan explains, the world was “richly symbolical.”3 Since then, place has become less meaningful for human beings, gradually reaching the modern state of placelessness that Relph so deplores. Neither perspective takes fully into account the historical ramifications for place studies of the epistemological issue of the neces1. The development of Christian pilgrimage in the centuries following Jesus’ life would seem to belie Casey’s correlation of Christian universalism and the decline of place. 2. Tuan situates this change “from 1500 onward” (Topophilia, 247); Relph states that “authentic Place-making, even by elite groups, has become increasingly unlikely since the Renaissance” (Place and Placelessness, 75). 3. Topophilia, 247.

Conclusions  287 sary subjectivity of all perception. If, as Kant argues, “Man himself is the original maker of all his representations and concepts,”4 then I cannot be certain that my experience of the world is identical with a universal truth that exists independently of me. At best, all of my experiences, including those of space, involve a certain amount of creative sense-making. At worst, we live in complete ignorance and delusion. Over a century before Kant, René Descartes’ program of radical doubt led him to this same epistemological divide when he imagined that he was deceived in all of his perceptions by a “malin génie” (“evil genius/spirit”). His famous “Cogito ergo sum” (“I think, therefore I am”) offered a first step away from this troubling prospect by assuring him that he must, at least, exist as a thinking being. He reassured himself that the rest of the world must exist too, as he perceived it, with the following reasoning: as a thinking being, he had the idea of a perfect God; that he himself, not being perfect, could not have been the source of this idea; that only a perfect God could be its source; and that therefore a perfect God existed. A perfect God would not allow Descartes to be deluded in his perceptions. Kant later accused Descartes of circular reasoning in this proposal, but it is not my purpose to debate this issue here. What I would like to retain from Descartes’ reasoning is this: he relies on God to bridge the divide between humanity and truth. In contemporary thought, this reliance on a transcendent being to guarantee that our experience of the world corresponds to truth is problematic. We cannot logically guarantee anything based on the existence of God, since this existence has never been proven.5 But this view (namely, that God’s existence cannot be proven) was not always dominant. In medieval times, it would hardly have occurred to most people to ques4. Immanuel Kant, The Conflict of the Faculties (1798), trans. Mary J. Gregor (New York: Abaris Books, 1979), 129. 5. My use of the word God refers to a transcendent being who created the world, as in the Judeo-Christian tradition. Whether my argument would also apply to the deities of other faith traditions (I am thinking in particular of deities seen as powerful but not as creators of the world) is a question that might interest scholars of religion.

288 Conclusions tion God’s existence. The commonplace belief in a God intimately involved with humanity must have had a significant impact on the Western European understanding of reality. (I speak here not of an analytical or philosophical understanding, but of the implicit and lived understanding that people have of their world.) Belief in God can influence a person’s innermost convictions about the nature of reality, because a caring God bridges the potential divide between reality and our perception of it. As Descartes saw, only an omnipotent being can guarantee the truth of the world. When a community believes firmly that God exists, as did most if not all of medieval Europe, this belief affects its fundamental mindset about reality and about space. The faith in God that is so fundamental in Roland and Alexis corresponds to a vision of the world’s inherent truthfulness, and such a vision strongly informs the human experience of place. These works reveal a worldview in which places provide a connection to the God who created them (and who appeared in them, as in Christian belief). They also offer a connection to the ancestors, founders, and others (whether historical or mythical) who are significant to the community and who lived in the place. Because places hold this linking power, they are endowed with great value and significance. This is true not only of profoundly Judeo-Christian places such as Jerusalem, Roland’s douce France, and Alexis’s Rome, but also of pagan places like ancient, pre-Christian Athens and Rome. As Eliade and Tuan point out, cities and countries nearly always conceive of themselves as having been founded by God or the gods. Literature not only tells and retells these foundation myths but also describes the continuing relationship between God and his people (or the gods and human beings) through the intermediary of place. This relationship is not always cast in religious terms as in the explicitly Christian Roland and Alexis. But the idea that place provides a vitally sustaining and transhistorical connection to transcendence pervades poetic works. This view of place derives in part from its enduring quality, for place far outlasts the finite lives of human be-

Conclusions  289 ings. It has stood witness to a community’s collective past and will witness its future. This vital quality of place continues to the present day, as the example of the ongoing conflict over the lands of Israel/ Palestine aptly illustrates. It is no doubt true, as the scholars we have studied suggest, that the human experience of place has undergone changes over time. However, when we consider place’s crucial role in linking humanity to transcendence, especially within the robustly Christian perspective of the Middle Ages, a new interpretation of place’s evolution in the Western world appears. In contrast with Eliade, Tuan, and Relph, who see a decline in the importance of place at the end of the Middle Ages, or Casey, who situates this decline in the advent of Newtonian physics, we can perceive a different explanation when we consider how belief in God might influence the human experience of place. Throughout the European Middle Ages, people generally believed in God and considered the spatial landscape of the world to be God’s Creation. As such, it would have seemed permeated with meaning. Place served as a medium through which the divine was revealed and thus offered an immediate, yet more or less permanent means through which to know God. Is it not possible to understand the rise of modern science as a reflection of this human desire to know the nature of God? From this perspective, the Western world’s growing fascination with the laws governing Creation—a fascination echoed in domains as diverse as medieval mapmaking, Renaissance humanism, and Newtonian physics—is continually pushed by scientific discoveries to enlarge the horizons it associates with God’s Creation. Is it not possible that these early manifestations of modern science testify not, as Tuan, Casey, et al. believe, to the gradual decline of place to the benefit of space, but rather to a radical enlargement of the boundaries of place?6 In Newton’s time, when the 6. Edward S. Casey seems to hint briefly at something similar regarding Newton in “Espaces lisses et lieux bruts: l’histoire cachée du lieu,” Revue de Métaphysique et de Morale 4 (2001): 49–65, quotation on 61.

290 Conclusions belief in a God who had created both humanity and the universe still dominated, humanity would have shared a strong affinity with the universe. As telescopes and exploration allowed people to perceive a Creation far more expansive than they had imagined, the human conception of the spatial limits of the world expanded. But this vast new space could still be seen as part of God’s Creation. As long as this belief held prominence, space could remain full of meaning; in other words, space could remain place. Of course, concomitant with the inclination to view (and celebrate) the world as divine Creation, other movements such as Manichaeism and Catharism have viewed the world as a fallen, corrupt, and evil place that had to be endured on the way to heaven. This coexisting positive-negative binarism is altogether characteristic of the medieval Christian view of the world as place. It does not negate my theory of a gradual enlargement of what constituted Creation (and therefore place) but coexists with it in a paradoxical harmony. Indeed, whether the believer sees the world as positive or negative (or both), as long as it can be seen as a manifestation of the will of God, it holds the significance of place. Euclidean geometry, as well as other early scientific treatises, show that the idea of absolute geometrical space was not born in modern times. The first modern scientists—Copernicus, Galileo, Descartes, Newton—did not necessarily drain the significance out of place through their emphasis on infinite space, as Casey asserts. Even when one believes that the physical world functions purely through mechanical cause and effect, as many modern scientists did, one might still view the universe and its laws as God’s Creation. The newly discovered laws of the universe did not preclude a divine role that infused the world with meaning. In the Judeo-Christian tradition, mankind plays a special role in Creation, a role of inquiry, curiosity, and insight. It is still not unusual for scientists to conceive of their work as adding to mankind’s understanding of both God and the meaningful universe he created. In this sense, Newton’s universe

Conclusions  291 was still a place because, inherently meaningful, it offered a means for humanity to gain insight into the mind of God.7 I would like to propose an alternative interpretation for the radical change that occurred in western thinking about space and place sometime between the Middle Ages and our times, and which has been noted by many scholars. The Reformation, and the ensuing schism of the unified western Christian church into a multitude of churches, represents perhaps a first step toward a new worldview, one in which individual and relative perspectives gradually increase in prominence. As the individual conscience and consciousness became increasingly central to Christian belief, the previously dominant experience of oneness—of unified belonging to one universally-valid faith—gave way to a sense of separateness. If the answers to the great questions of the universe (who God is, what He wants of me, etc.) must be found in my individual conscience, then not only am I separate from others; in some sense, I am separate from God. The logical consequence of the Reformation’s emphasis on individual consciousness took hold only gradually, over centuries. I would suggest that it was Immanuel Kant (the very man Casey credits with the restitution of place in western thought) who introduced a notion that brought an end to the concept of transcendent place that had dominated the Western world until then. (I assert this only within the limited scope of the history of western thought, for of course, the human experience of place-attachment and placetranscendence survives to this day, as is evident, for example, in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict or the Islamic hadj.) By affirming that human categories of understanding are obligatory elements of knowledge, Kant brought individual, subjective consciousness to the foreground not only of faith, but of cognition in general. Phenomenology 7. I cannot help but muse upon Newton’s theory of gravity—this notion of a place that, by its massive weight, pulls other objects to itself—and find it in startling contrast with Casey’s description of Newtonian space as “the undistinguishable Inane of infinite Space” (Fate of Place, 200). Rather than undistinguishable and inane, Newtonian space appears to be alive, pushing and pulling with a force great enough to move the heavens.

292 Conclusions continues to assert the centrality of human perception in the production of meaning and knowledge. To emphasize this centrality is to stress, to a far greater degree than in ancient and medieval times, separation, because my consciousness is seen above all as individual and private. It is, and I am, separate from others, from God, and from the reality of world.8 Thus, when Casey points out the relatively recent resurgence of interest in place, he is not wrong, but the place in question is a very different kind of place indeed. The place of which Kant, Heidegger, and phenomenology speak is human-centered and profane, as opposed to the God-centered, sacred vision of place that was prominent in earlier times. Both types of place share many associations: community, work, comfort, nourishment, and rootedness. But the belief that a God or gods have created the universe and mankind and given the Earth to mankind as a place to live and even, in some doctrines, a place through which to know God, transforms place into a reflection of—perhaps even the very substance of—transcendence.9 Seen from this perspective, the renewal of interest in place celebrated by Casey and the placelessness of the modern world lamented by Relph are not necessarily contradictory. If place begins and ends with the human body, as Merleau-Ponty argued, then place is shot through with the finitude and incompleteness of all human life. It is no wonder then that a sense of placelessness develops.10 Perhaps the true change in the human experience of place 8. Tristan illustrates well this idea. In Tristan, the love potion separates the lovers from God, from others, and even, as Blanchot has argued, from each other and from themselves. The separation engenders a sense of placelessness. 9. The belief that the natural world represents an intelligible means for people to learn about God was a new, hotly debated, and highly influential notion in twelfth- and thirteenth-century Western Europe, brought on by these centuries’ rediscovery of Aristotle. On this development, see Étienne Gilson, Reason and Revelation in the Middle Ages (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1938), and Richard E. Rubenstein, Aristotle’s Children: How Christians, Muslims, and Jews Rediscovered Ancient Wisdom and Illuminated the Middle Ages (Orlando, Fla.: Harcourt, 2003). 10. The themes of exile, alienation and estrangement so common in twentieth- and twenty-first-century literature and literary studies may reflect this sense of placelessness.

Conclusions  293 occurs when the world is no longer seen as a divine Creation, and humans consider themselves as the only possible source of meaning for reality.

Literature and Pla ce Spaces and places are an obvious fact of our existence. The stories that make up our lives cannot be told, or even conceived, without some kind of spatial component. It is not surprising, then, to note that all poetic works deal with space in one way or another. Stories cannot lack a location, no matter how nondescript, attenuated, or otherworldly that location may be. We cannot therefore fail to notice that characters do or do not move from one space to another or that certain events occur in particular spaces and not in others. Nothing in our world—including the stories we create or even the paper we write them on—happens without space. Nevertheless, our most fundamental experiences are sometimes those we question the least, and so it is with the experience of space. Recently, literary scholars have begun to ask questions about the meanings of place in literature. In a 1998 issue of the Times Literary Supplement, John Kerrigan cites no less than seven contemporary books having as their subject “the links between geography and the writer’s imagination.”11 Despite the currently fashionable status of the notions of space and place in literary and philosophical studies, relatively few scholars have examined specific poetic works with these simple questions in mind: What does this place mean to the people in this story? What does the author’s use of space to structure the story tell us about the work’s deeper meanings? Or, to use some banal examples, what does Camelot have to do with the Knights of the Round Table? Why does Don Quixote call himself Don Quixote de la Mancha? These basic queries 11. John Kerrigan, “The Country of the Mind: Exploring the Links between Geography and the Writer’s Imagination,” Times Literary Supplement, September 11, 1998, 3–4.

294 Conclusions will surely further our understanding of the works in question.12 Of course, space in literary works is an imaginary space constructed with words. This space exists not to serve as the foundation for a house, or as a location for drilling oil, but rather to enable the telling of a story. In works such as the Song of Roland and the Life of Saint Alexis, these stories are intimately connected to a real space and the community that lives there; they are told for that community, and the community and its place are inscribed into the storytelling. In such poems, there are at least three levels of space: the real place of the community-audience (which usually includes the place of composition), the “imaginary” spaces portrayed in the poem, and the poetic space that brings the previous two levels together in a creation of language—in other words, the space of the poem as poem. The poem is a work created not in isolation but in a particular time and place. Especially in eras before the printing press, the idiosyncrasies of place imbue the poem down to the smallest details: place influenced not only the manner in which the poet envisioned his writerly task but also the ink used by the scribe, his style of script, the hole in the parchment he had to write around. In some works, the poetic place created by the conjunction of community-audience and depicted spaces dynamically interacts with and contributes to the sense of place of a real community. Such a dynamic interplay between poetry and place is evident in Roland and Alexis, where the real-life meanings associated with France and Rome are certainly augmented by these poems.13 Poetic place is also apparent, albeit in a less visible manner, through the figures of Ogrin and King Mark in Tristan. In epic poetry and hagiography especially, creating a sense of place through poetic language is an indispensable function of the 12. Scholars of contemporary Jewish literature have perhaps done a better job of posing these obvious questions. For a survey of their work, see Maeera Shreiber, “The End of Exile: Jewish Identity and Its Diasporic Poetics,” PMLA 113, no. 2 (1998): 273–87. 13. I understand France here to include French-speaking England, which of course represented a significant element of the audience-community for French literature of the Middle Ages.

Conclusions  295 genre, for the epic hero and the saint lose their meaning without connection to a community. Literary, geographical, and philosophical studies would do well to give more attention to this implacement of the literary work, attending not just to the origins and place-belonging of the author (for such studies have been common), but to the place the work depicts (internally, as it were), the place it originates in (externally), and the complex interactions of these two places, poetic and real. Particularly lacking have been serious considerations of how space functions poetically within the poem—and I have chosen this as my focus here, leaving more external questions such as where manuscripts were produced, for whom, and so forth, as topics for later study. The use of space to construct narrative is rarely a simple matter of locating and framing the story, especially in works of the Middle Ages.14 Each of the three works I have studied reveals how essential spaces and places can be to the construction of poetic meaning. In the Song of Roland, the narrative begins in Saragossa and progresses in a more or less linear fashion to its conclusion in Charlemagne’s capital. Roland is, in many ways, the story of a return home, a return fraught with comforts and dangers. In the middle of this spatial progression toward home, the narrative “gets stuck” in Roncevaux, where a battle is fought over the profound meaning of a place, Saragossa. At the center of Roland’s actions is his belief in the high value of Saragossa, the last bastion of Muslim Spain, as place. Charlemagne’s progression toward France is momentarily reversed as he returns to Spain and finishes the task of restoring Saragossa to what is for the Franks its rightful place—Christendom. Thus, he ensures that the place of douce France fulfills its calling. (Roland gives his life to remind Charles of the importance of this task.) In this 14. As Vance notes based on his study of Roland, “Students of the middle ages, and particularly of the Chanson de Roland, must keep in mind the richness of spatial meaning underlying a poem, particularly if the amount of verbal conceptualization in that poem is spare” (“Spatial Structure,” 623).

296 Conclusions way, the spaces portrayed in the poem, and the meaning attributed to them by the poem’s characters, reveal much about the forces propelling the narrative toward its completion. The spatial structuring of the Life of Saint Alexis describes a circular trajectory. The story not only begins and ends in Rome, but uses Rome as the space where the majority of its action takes place. Although Alexis senses that the fulfillment of his saintly calling requires him to leave Rome and accordingly spends seventeen years in voluntary exile, God brings him back to his native city. His stationary life under the staircase reflects the gradual reanchoring of his sainthood in Rome, a place that is defined primarily as a community. The reanchoring reaches its completion with his death and the consequent salvation of this community. The spatial immobility of the second half of his calling suggests that Alexis’s progression during this time takes place on a purely spiritual level. In this way, Alexis’s sainthood takes root and derives its significance from Rome despite, and paradoxically even because of, his intrepid determination to flee Rome and the worldly ties of place that it represents. If we compare Roland and Alexis to Tristan solely from the perspective of spatiality, we perceive the immense difference that separates Tristan’s story from that of the other protagonists. It is difficult to describe what kind of a spatial progression occurs in the Tristan legend. It is not quite circular, because the hero begins the story in his own homeland and ends in the land of either his wife (T) or, posthumously, his uncle (E). Tristan’s spatial trajectory is highly erratic: he moves from one space to another, never finding a place where he can stay without soon being compelled to leave. The story of the belongings through which he defines himself is just as capricious: he is Mark’s knight, Mark’s diplomat, Iseut’s tutor, Iseut’s lover, a second Iseut’s husband, Kaherdin’s friend. The spatial mobility that governs Tristan’s life serves to illustrate the mutual interrelatedness of real, physical uprooting and spiritual rootlessness. Alexis, Roland, and Tristan are each characterized by a certain

Conclusions  297 detachment from the value of place. Roland’s heightened awareness of the importance of Saragossa corresponds to his own ability to avoid the overwhelming feelings of homesickness that cloud the judgment of the other Franks and even of Charlemagne himself. Roland’s valiant service to France expresses a profound attachment to that place, but he remains emotionally distant from the more obvious ties of place: the comforts of home, his fiancée, and his position at court. In a similar fashion, Alexis not only maintains an emotional distance from Rome but evades scrupulously any form of attachment to any place, whether it be the marriage bed or the admiring crowds of believers who pursue him in Syria. Like Roland’s, however, Alexis’s story derives its meaning from an intimate involvement with the place he so avoided. In reality, the examples of Alexis and Roland illustrate the double nature of place itself. Places can represent all sorts of worldly attachments: status, money, honor, family, sexuality. As such, they present a danger to anyone who endeavors to answer a higher calling, whether to holiness, prouesse, or a great love. However, places also have another side to them that is just as characteristic as their worldliness. Places can sustain one’s vital connection not only to one’s past but to God. This is the meaning of pilgrimage, whether it be to the village where one’s ancestors lived centuries ago or to the places where God manifested himself in the human world. Places connect us to the memory of historical events that happened long before we were born but are still of significance for who we are or want to be. In Christian belief, for example, the mystery of the incarnation expresses the double nature of place—its ability to be both worldly and divine. According to this and many other religious traditions, divinity has manifested itself in place from time to time in order to communicate with humanity. The memory of this divine touch endures only in places and in stories, however worldly they may be. Alexis and Roland understand, to the depths of their being, the double nature of place.

298 Conclusions Tristan, of course, tells another story. His detachment from place is of a wholly different nature, for he has never fully experienced either the worldly comforts or the transcendent nature of place and spends his life longing for both. From the beginning, the hero’s identity is more fluid and changing than that of Alexis and Roland. (This fluid quality finds direct spatial expression in the legend’s erratic, irregular spatiality, which persists across versions, and—most especially—in the prominent role it gives to the sea in Tristan’s tale.) His initial precarious belonging is only exacerbated by circumstance. The love potion, in removing his free will, separates him from God and from others. As I have theorized, such separation from transcendence and community leads to a sense of placelessness. Tristan is neither an epic hero nor a saint but a lover—the lover of a woman with whom he can never experience place or belonging.15 For all his inescapable placelessness, however, Tristan is the only one of our three protagonists not to die alone. He dies, not with his lover, but with his wife, who gave him his most secure place in life. More than anywhere else, it is in Tristan’s death that we see the significant divergence of the legend’s “common” and “courtly” traditions (here represented by E and T, respectively). In T, the lovers’ story ends by placing them in a sort of eternal exile, to which the poem itself is the only remedy. In E, Tristan is reconnected in death to both his lover and his uncle, finding paradoxically in death the life-giving properties of place (as witnessed by the plant growing out of his grave). Perhaps Tristan does not die alone because his principle identity is that of a lover. He is defined primarily through human love, and 15. The other identity category with which Tristan seems strongly associated is that of artist, thanks to his abilities as a musician and painter (in T). For a discussion of the role of music in Gottfried, see W. T. H. Jackson, “Tristan the Artist in Gottfried’s Poem,” in Tristan and Isolde: A Casebook (New York: Garland, 1995), 125-46. Tristan’s tendency to placelessness fits well with the medieval figure of the wandering minstrel or troubadour, as well as with our contemporary conception of the artist as a suffering, marginalized figure. It is perhaps not overly anachronistic to see this latter conception in T’s salle aux images episode, in which Tristan creates through representation what he does not have in reality (Iseut’s presence), in an effort to assuage his solitary anguish, which approaches madness.

Conclusions  299 so another person—not the one he loves but one who loves him— is present to witness his death. Roland dies alone, among the dead bodies of his companions. Even in death, he lies at a distance from home, in his white casket at Saint-Romain, along the route from Spain to Aix. Alexis dies under the staircase, surrounded by people, but alone to the end. In death, however, his solitude comes to an end, as his body is passed among the crowded throngs of Rome. Because he is a saint, his life shunned worldly attachment for the sake of God, but his death and his story join him to a community in a visceral connection that neither Tristan nor even Roland can attain. Each of these protagonists finds a place in death that complements their life: for Alexis, death is kinder than life ever was; for Tristan, it reflects the “unsolitary solitude” of a life spent with and in need of others, but somehow always disconnected from them; and Roland’s death for the sake of douce France participates in a struggle that can never end, hence his isolation, even in death. But for all three, their place in memory is ensured by a creation of language. Ultimately, Alexis, Roland, Tristan, and their stories have reached us through the centuries because someone wrote them down and thus created for them a belonging in the place of poetry.

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